


Glass on the Ground

by Trobadora



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, M/M, Multi, OT3, Post-Season 4, Slow Burn, alternate season 5, crawling out of the darkness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-04-26 22:55:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 84,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5023759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trobadora/pseuds/Trobadora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Juliette's and his mother's death Nick's life is in pieces, and the splinters are cutting deep. But sometimes there's a second chance, a chance to build something new from the broken fragments of the past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cover

**Author's Note:**

> This is set after the end of season 4 and doesn't take any of the events of season 5 into account - the first draft for this was planned out and (mostly) written before any spoilers came out. Consider it an alternate opening for season 5. With kudos to Lyra B, who brought up the theory around Trubel, Juliette and Chavez first, and to the fabulous Maat for betaing.
> 
> Relationships and ratings are tagged for the entire story; some of them may not make an appearance for some time. Main characters are tagged; relevant supporting characters will be added as they appear in the story.

**_"Gather up the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost."_ **


	2. Chapter 1

Nick stopped.

For a long moment he simply stood still, glass in hand. He clenched his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. It didn't help.

The pub probably wasn't all that loud. The music was at early-evening volume, not yet turned up to can't-hear-your-own-words level, and the evening crowd was only just beginning to appear. But it all rushed in Nick's ears, louder than the blood and his still-regular pulse he could also, inexorably, still hear. Grimm senses in overdrive. 

Nick's skin felt raw. His jeans and the t-shirt he wore under his hoodie chafed, and every nerve ending in his body seemed to be in screeching overdrive.

He'd worn a suit for the funeral, of course, but had ripped it off as soon as he'd been able to, feeling horrifyingly like an impostor. 

_Kill her_ , he'd said.

Juliette had raised her hand for the killing strike.

Trubel had taken the shot.

He'd sat for hours, Juliette's dead body in his arms, long after Trubel stopped trying to talk to him and went away.

Taking condolences at Juliette's funeral had been surreal, to say the least; he'd left as quickly as he could. (Sooner. People would put it down to grief, no doubt.)

Nick was still lost in his own head when something knocked into him from behind. His startled reflexes readied him for a fight, hands clenching into fists. The glass he'd inadvertently let go of fell and crashed into the ground, breaking into shards as amber liquid splashed into the air.

He whirled around, ready for attack. A fist in his opponent's stomach, a sharp knock on the back of his head while he was bowed over, then kick him across the room ...

At the last moment he remembered where he was, and the haze around his thoughts cleared a little. He was facing down some beer-bellied guy with a receding hairline, looking at him half-puzzled, half angry. Nick nearly flinched back.

The man scowled, mouth drawing up into a bulldog expression. "Don't just stand there, get out of the way," he said, eyeing Nick's clenched fists.

Nick didn't move. Adrenaline coursed through him, and it felt good. "You made me drop my drink. Want to apologize?" 

The man before him was his own size, though bulkier. Not one of the officers who frequented this pub; no one he knew. The small brew pub wasn't far from the precinct, a favorite spot for many of Nick's co-workers, and even now there were probably several of them in the crowd. He ignored them.

"Now you wait a minute," the man demanded. "Me? You dropped that all by yourself, dude. _You_ want to apologize, standing around holding everything up here?"

"You made me drop my drink," Nick repeated, nearly snarling. Broken glass, a Hexenbiest's specialty. Liquid splashing on the ground like blood. _His blade sliding into Kenneth's neck ..._

"The hell, dude? Oh, fuck off."

Nick stepped away from a shove; that guy wasn't exactly a professional brawler. The remains of the glass on the floor crunched under his shoes.

"Try that again," he challenged, teeth bared.

"Me?" The man lifted his fists in earnest now. "Dude, what the hell's wrong with you?"

It was happening. The relief of an imminent fight flooded through Nick, a clarity and sweetness infinitely welcome. Something he knew how to do. Something that demanded nothing but reaction. 

_Yes._

A large body interposed itself between Nick and his opponent. "Excuse me," said Captain Renard's dry voice. He pushed through, put an empty glass on the counter, and turned around. "Please don't," he said mildly. To Nick's opponent.

Startled, Nick almost relaxed his own fighting stance. His body didn't cooperate, every muscle and sinew tensed and primed.

"What's it to you?" the other guy asked, outraged. "This dude, he just went off at me - what, am I supposed to let him?"

Nick snarled - at both of them. What the hell was the captain even doing here? "Were you following me?" he asked, accusing. Beer-belly hadn't been much of an opponent, anyway.

Renard huffed a humorless laugh. "Not me," he said, and turned to the other man. "Yes, as a matter of fact, you are supposed to let him. Today." A small shrug. "Nick's been trying to hold a wake all on his own."

"Aw, seriously, dude?" The other man's anger seemed to dial down a notch. He still leveled a glare at Nick. "Just because you're hurtin', dude, don't mean you can just lash out like that."

Nick flinched. 

"Whatever," he muttered, knowing he sounded like a sullen teenager, and not caring one bit.

Renard took him by the arm and steered both of them through the gathering evening crowd toward the door. Nick went, mostly unresisting, as his brain tried to switch gears. The touch burned, raw on his skin even through layers of clothing, and the sudden dissipation of the fight that had been brewing left him reeling, floating on adrenaline that had nowhere to go. 

The cold air was like a brick wall, and Nick suddenly realized the drinks he'd had hadn't left him as unaffected as he'd thought. He'd started after the funeral, and hadn't really stopped. 

He glared at Renard. "I don't need a babysitter."

"And I don't need to find one of my officers in the drunk tank tomorrow, or worse." Renard shrugged. "I didn't think you did. I was having a quiet drink in there," he gestured toward the door behind them, "in peace, until someone decided to start a fight."

Something in Nick's gut was still seething. "I didn't start it."

"You nearly finished it." A calculating look, and a jerk of his head; then Renard moved along the street toward the mouth of a dark alley, away from the pub. Nick followed, body tense in anticipation. Renard kept talking as they went. "I seem to remember Juliette assaulting someone in a bar, not so long ago. You remember how that ended."

Nick raised his fists and moved a menacing step closer. "How dare you." It would be so satisfying to punch _someone_ tonight -

"Good choice of venue, though," Renard continued, seemingly oblivious, coming to a halt. "Not your usual haunt, but probably as safe a place as there is, to be compromised in."

Nick narrowed his eyes, not ready to be defused by the change of subject. His body still seemed to be trying to vibrate out of his skin.

"That _is_ why you're here, isn't it?" Renard added. 

"So what if I am?" Then his brain finally caught up. "You too." The words were a snarled challenge.

Renard had _liked_ Juliette, Nick thought, but he'd hardly been heartbroken. Her betrayal hadn't ripped his life to shreds. Her funeral wouldn't send _him_ out looking for a safe place to drink. Still, they'd apparently had the same instinct; a pub full of police officers was probably about as safe as it got, for either of them. 

Renard ignored his belligerent stance and shrugged, looking away. "They found my father's body."

Nick gave him a hard stare. "I'm not going to say I'm sorry."

"I didn't expect you to." 

The King had been missing since the night he'd boarded that helicopter, the night Juliette had died. The King, and Diana. Now, the King had been found dead ...

"Diana?" Nick made himself ask. He should probably care, but when he thought of the little girl his mother had been protecting, all he could see was his mother's severed head.

"No trace." 

It was Juliette who'd put the little girl in the Royals' hands ...

_Royals._

"I'm going taking them _down_ ," Nick snarled. "I'm going to kill them all."

"Got your work cut out for you," Renard said calmly. "All the seven families, or just mine?"

Blood was rushing in Nick's ears again. _Everyone. All of them. Wipe the floor with them -_

"Where do you want to start?" Renard continued. "Oh, I forget, you _have_ already started."

"Kenneth had it coming," Nick snapped. "Don't pretend you didn't want him just as dead."

"Oh, I don't. Thank you - you did me a favor there." A considering look. "How does it feel, by the way? I do believe that was your first premeditated murder."

Nick's fist connected satisfyingly with Renard's chin, sending him staggering back several steps into the alley. Nick followed with another punch, but Renard evaded.

Renard's stature was very much like Kenneth's ...

"Two years ago, you stood in my office feeling guilty for killing someone who'd attacked you while you weren't in control of yourself."

Renard's shoulders hit the wall. Nick slammed Renard against the dirty bricks again, enjoying the strength that let him manhandle a guy who had both height and bulk over him. 

"Simpler times." Nick could barely remember what that felt like. He didn't _want_ to remember; remembering hurt.

With a kick to his ankle and a well-timed shove, Renard freed himself. He evaded another punch and twisted Nick's arm, slamming Nick face-first into the bricks. A harsh palm shoved his head against the wall a second time, and an angry growl came from Renard's throat as he put his entire body into a vicious hold.

A moment later, the furious grip on Nick steadied, turning into something more calculated as the captain's fury seemed to dissipate.

"Not here," Renard hissed, then let go.

Nick whirled around, taking in their surroundings. The street visible from the mouth of the alley wasn't too busy, but there were cars driving by, and the odd pedestrian on the way to or from one of the bars and restaurants in the area. "Fine," he conceded. "Where?"

"Come on."

Renard's hand closed around his biceps, pulling him along. He shook it off violently, but followed.

~*~

"Really?"

Renard had given the cab driver his own address. Now he offered a small, one-shouldered shrug. "No audience."

Fair enough.

Nick was just starting to sober up a little when they reached Renard's house, enough to realize he was sitting in a cab with his captain, going to his house so they could fight in private. But Renard gave him no time for awkwardness. He unlocked the door and went straight to the side table next to the French doors, pouring something dark and expensive-looking from a crystal decanter, pressing a glass into Nick's hands.

"I don't think you want to be sober just yet," he said.

"Know that from experience?" Nick snapped back, but took a gulp of his drink nonetheless.

"Yes." Disarmingly. "Now, where were we?"

Nick set his glass down harshly. "You called me a murderer."

"You are." Renard's expression gave very little away. "So am I, of course."

Nick jerked his chin to the glass in Renard's hand. "Put that down." 

Renard took a slow, deliberate sip, then obeyed. Snarling, Nick had him against the wall within a moment. He pushed again, for emphasis. They were close enough he could feel the heat of Renard's body, and see every single bristle of growing stubble on Renard's chin.

He looked up; Renard looked down; and their eyes met. "What," Nick snarled, "am I supposed to do about that?"

"That depends." Renard wasn't exactly fighting back, but neither was he backing down. "What do you _want_?"

_Splintered glass. Blood on the concrete. His fist smashing into Kenneth's face, his blade sliding into Kenneth's neck ..._

Fighting Kenneth had been good. Unleashing himself, giving himself license to hit as hard as he could, at a deserving target, that had been unspeakably satisfying.

He wanted more of that ... and he recognized the feeling.

He stared into Renard's intense green eyes, holding the man against the wall. Renard's pupils were dilated, but his expression was unreadable. He was as safe a target as there was; the one time they'd fought, Renard had held his own well enough against Nick.

But Renard wasn't fighting now. And it wasn't Renard he was angry at.

Wanting to lash out, but not sure at whom: the feeling was intimately familiar, and not just from the last several months. He'd thought he'd managed to get over that kind of undirected anger, that he'd wrestled it under control after he'd finished grieving for his parents. But now he was grieving for his mother again, and it was as if he were a boy again, helplessly angry at the world.

 _Not a child any more. And too dangerous to lash out like that._

The guy at the bar had been right. 

Drawing in a sharp breath between his teeth, Nick pulled back. An arm's length away, Renard lifted an ironic eyebrow, as if he could read Nick's thoughts and was subtly commenting on them.

_His hands closing around Juliette's neck ..._

Nick let go, just as Renard's gaze abruptly shifted away. "Sorry," he muttered, snatched up his glass from the sideboard and threw himself onto the couch. 

After a moment Renard pushed himself away from the wall, a smooth, liquid movement. He joined Nick on the couch and turned to look at him. Then his hand was on Nick's shoulder, gripping hard. "Do you even know what you're doing?"

"No," Nick snapped, flinching away from the touch. "Do you?"

Sharp, darkened eyes made what would have been Renard's usual wry smile into something else, something dangerous and fey. "No," he breathed. "Not today."

~*~

"I wanted to be a Grimm again," Nick muttered into his glass, another refill later. "Everything ... everything else is because of that." Bitterly, "I still want to be a Grimm."

Renard said nothing.

"It's got to end somewhere."

"If you know how, tell me." A brief hesitation. "Preferably without mass murder."

Nick's gut clenched, but he didn't punch Renard again. "I never wanted to be that kind of Grimm." He swallowed another mouthful. "I don't know who I am any more," he admitted. 

"There's a great deal I should be doing, you realize," Renard said, seemingly irrelevantly. "And I will, tomorrow. I'll get back on the horse, all that bullshit." Nick startled at the captain's uncharacteristic language. "But not tonight."

Nick blinked. "Not tonight," he echoed, the words taking hold. "I'll drink to that." 

They clinked glasses.

It should have been awkward; he wasn't far enough gone not to know that any more. But instead, the numbness he'd felt all week and the dulling effect of the alcohol conspired, and he simply didn't care.

Renard raised his glass. "To Diana. May she be safe."

Nick lifted his own drink in turn. "Kelly Burkhardt. Rest in peace." The name was out of his mouth before he could think. 

A brief hesitation. "Juliette Silverton," Renard added quietly.

Nick tensed; then, impulsively, he thrust out his glass and clinked it against Renard's. 

"She came to me for help, and I ... didn't," Renard confessed. "Not very well, at least."

Nick looked away. "You had a lot going on."

"Didn't we all." A sigh. "I should have ..." Renard trailed off, staring into nothing.

There was no answer to that. Regrets; what were they good for? There wasn't a thing they could undo.

Nick lifted his glass, considered a refill. Still a mouthful in it. He thrust it out in Renard's general direction; Renard clinked his against it. Together they lifted their glasses to their mouths, emptied them, swallowed the smooth burn.

They clinked their empty glasses again.

~*~

"My mother," Nick said, some time later, his fingers clenching around the hoodie he'd taken off. He wasn't sure where he was going, so he repeated, "My mother."

"Yes?" Renard had taken off his jacket as well, thrown away his necktie and loosened his shirt. 

"She killed her," Nick said, the words suddenly coming out. "Set her up, let Kenneth kill her, whatever. Maybe - I don't know what she wanted. She said she didn't know ..." He gulped. "But my mother is dead because of her."

"And my daughter is lost because of her," Renard added. Nick noticed he didn't mention his father's death, but then, that was complicated. 

"I hate her," Nick almost shouted, banging his hand on the couch table, making the decanter jump. Renard's reflexes rescued it, and it ended up on the floor instead. "And she's dead, and I love her, and _I don't know_."

"Yes," Renard said again, simply, devastatingly, and Nick pulled his legs up, resting his cheek on his knee, letting out a dry, helpless sob. He'd cried, days ago; it hadn't helped. It wouldn't help now. But it was already there, welling up his throat, clogging up his nose, and he couldn't stop it.

Renard said nothing, merely watched as the tears rolled down his face and soaked into his jeans.

~*~

Dark liquid swirled hypnotically inside the glass. Nick turned it slowly, watching the last remaining mouthful as it moved with the movements of his hand.

Everything seemed further away from him, yet at the same time closer, there for the touch if only he could be bothered to reach out, like a strange kind of optical illusion. The walls and the couch table; the empty decanter and the half-full bottle on the floor next to it; the glass in his hand and his own knees; Renard next to him, leaning back against the wall in slouched nonchalance, glass resting on a knee. It should have looked stranger than it did.

Why they'd ended up on the floor he wasn't entirely sure, but getting up again and relocating to the couch seemed entirely too much effort. Nick emptied his glass, put it down beside him on the rug and arched his back, then stretched out his legs. Renard watched him through lowered eyelashes, looking so relaxed Nick would have thought he was dozing off, if not for the slight quirk of his mouth that was entirely too aware.

"Another?" Nick reached across the space between them for the empty glass resting on Renard's knee. His fingers closed around Renard's hand - he was still coordinated enough not to miss the glass, but not quite enough to do so without touching.

He snapped his eyes to Renard's face purely on instinct, an apology on his lips, and he saw Renard's eyes snap open with the same adrenal jolt, meeting his gaze. The reflexive apology died unspoken on his half-opened lips.

Cool glass and warm skin under his fingers; dark, intent eyes boring into his.

"Yes," Renard said hoarsely after what seemed a very long time. "I'll pour." He pulled his hand and the glass away, and Nick found himself sitting, blinking, in the middle of the room, watching as Renard leaned across to pick up Nick's glass, line both glasses up on the floor, and poured from the bottle sloppily, yet spilling no more than a few drops on the rug.

~*~

"God. I had to talk to her _parents_."

"Yes?"

Nick buried his face in his knees. "I walked out on them," he muttered. "Don't want to know what they're thinking. But I couldn't ... I couldn't ..." A dry sob. " _Such a tragedy, poor Juliette, killed in a home invasion ... if only her cop boyfriend had been home!_ \- God." Nick let out a bitter laugh and banged the back of his head against the wall, trying to jolt the memories out. Then a second time.

The third time, his head slammed into the palm of Renard's hand, swiftly inserted.

"Don't do that," Renard advised. "It won't help."

Renard's large hand, trapped between Nick's head and the wall, curled slightly into Nick's hair. 

"Why?" Nick snapped. "Have you tried?" 

When he turned his head to see Renard's reaction, Renard's hand was freed. Renard let it fall onto Nick's shoulder, where it simply rested. "You'd be surprised at what I've tried."

Truthfully, at this point, very little about the captain would have surprised Nick. But he let the point stand and fell silent, feeling the weight of Renard's hand burning into him. He wanted to shrug away from it, cringe from the contact and the grating awareness of his presence. He didn't.

Every nerve ending in his body seemed aware of nothing but that unwanted point of contact. Nick let himself fall into the feeling, the searing unpleasantness, the sharp, cutting connection. It hurt.

It hurt, but it had hooked into him now, and he couldn't bring himself to end the moment, the simple _there_ ness of it, a comfort he didn't want and couldn't stomach but ... did.

Nick heaved careful, regular breaths against the turmoil in his gut and sat, unmoving, until Renard finally, too soon, and inevitably, took his hand away.

~*~

The thing was ... the thing was ...

"It's all a joke!" Nick gestured wildly, only remembering the glass in his hand when its contents sloshed onto his fingers, and put it down to suck the liquid from his fingers.

Renard stared at him oddly. "What d'you mean?" he muttered, somewhat indistinctly. 

They were sitting next to each other, legs stretched out before them. Renard's shoulder was warm next to his.

"Everything ... it's all a joke," Nick snarled. "Grimms, Royals, Wesen. Friends, family. Can't trust any of them."

"Story of my life." Renard lifted his glass to Nick. About a finger of liquid remained. "I'll drink to that." And he downed the rest in one long swallow. Nick watched his adam's apple bob, and found himself swaying a little.

He quickly emptied his own glass and snatched Renard's from him, plunking both of them down on the floor with more of a _thunk_ than strictly necessary. He reached for the bottle and liberally sloshed more into both glasses.

"Can't trust anyone," Nick repeated, still just about alert enough to realize he was sitting on the floor in the captain's living room, drunk and rambling, and not caring at all. "Girlfriend'll kill you."

"Didn't," Renard said, infuriatingly.

"Would've." He had to believe that, and how fucked up was that?

"Would you have?" 

Renard sounded genuinely curious. He didn't know ... He didn't know. 

"I had ..." A deep breath. "I had my hands around her throat," Nick forced out. He put his glass down, lifted his hands and watched them clench and unclench in front of him, again and again. "I wanted ..."

_His mother's severed head. Kenneth's blood on the concrete. His hands, closing around Juliette's neck ..._

He hadn't been able to. If Trubel hadn't stopped Juliette ...

He almost wished she hadn't.

 _Murderer_ , Renard's voice sounded in his head, inexorable, damning, tempting.

 _No._ Nick shoved at Renard, hard, nearly toppling him over, then again. He wanted ...

Renard scowled at him, catching himself on an elbow, just barely keeping hold of his glass. "Don't."

"Or what?" Nick threw himself across, slamming Renard into the floor, snarling down at him. Renard's glass rolled away, spilling its contents on the carpet. "Well?" he demanded.

Renard's hands closed around his shoulders, and for a terrifying, satisfying moment Nick thought he was going to get thrown across the room. Instead, there was only a firm grip, a foot hooked over his calf, and a sudden turn that had the room swaying around him as Renard flipped them over. 

Braced on his elbows, legs bracketing Nick's, Renard looked down at him, eyes dilated and dark, something furious and intent hovering behind them. Nick closed his eyes against it. It felt almost good, lying here, Renard's body above him and not quite resting on top of him; warm breath against his face.

Warm and solid and real. Nick couldn't help reaching out, blindly, pulling Renard down more firmly until Renard's weight pressed him into the floor, until they were flush against each other.

A sudden, feverish rush of hot-and-cold shivered over his body, sending his skin on fire. He was getting hard. For a moment almost sober, Nick wanted to cringe in embarrassment, sink into the floor.

Then his eyes snapped open, helplessly, as Renard's hips thrust against his, a sharp and delicious movement, and his own hips jerked up in inescapable reaction.

Through Nick's jeans and Renard's tailored trousers, _too much fabric_ , their erections met.

" _Yes_ ," he rasped, and wrapped his arms firmly around Renard's torso, holding on for dear life as they rocked together, too far gone for anything else and not particularly caring.

Release was fast and sloppy, like pouring himself out, over far too quickly.

Renard rolled half-way off him then, and he missed the weight immediately. Without thought - without letting himself think - Nick followed, seeking the warmth of Renard's body. 

Renard's hand fell to his hip. "Bad idea," he said, but he made no move to shift away. His fingers began to play with the seam of Nick's jeans.

"I don't care." Nick looked up. "Do you?"

Renard's hand ran along Nick's side and up until he was cupping Nick's face. "No," he said. "No." And his head bent forward until their lips brushed. 

An electric charge went through Nick, a spike of lightning down his spine. His skin felt on fire. His jeans chafed against it; even his t-shirt chafed. His cock was a long way from a second round, but the jolt that went through it felt good nonetheless - a little bit stinging, a little bit sticky, a little bit too raw, like being turned inside out, but promising more, and straining toward that promise.

He gripped Renard's face in both hands, holding him still as he slammed their lips together, teeth clacking with the clumsy move. It didn't slow him down. He pushed his tongue into Renard's mouth, sloppy and wet and far from smooth, but Renard didn't seem to care. Their tongues met in a wet, messy kiss that tasted of alcohol more than anything, and went on for a long time. Finally Renard pulled back a little, and Nick strained up, open-mouthed. Then Renard's hand brushed down to his crotch.

Getting rid of sticky underwear and jeans was good. He kicked them off almost violently. The air was cool against his skin, and he seemed to be glowing from the inside. Nick bent forward and wrapped his hand around Renard's cock, half-hard again. A jolt went through Renard's body, and a sudden, sharply indrawn breath. Nick ran the smooth flesh through his fist, wanting that reaction again, and then again, becoming absorbed with the silky sensation of skin on softer skin, and the hardening flesh underneath. Soon, Renard was panting harshly, half-propped against the wall and staring down at his own cock in Nick's hand with wide, dilated eyes. 

Suddenly, his hand closed around Nick's, stilling its movement. "Stop," Renard rasped. 

Nick blinked, jolted out of his rhythm and the hypnotic pleasure of it. His own cock lay heavy and aching against his belly. "What?" 

Renard swallowed harshly, reached out and pulled Nick closer until he had free reach. When his knuckles brushed over Nick's erection, Nick nearly came again then and there.

Jerking each other off turned into a breathless, uneven race. Nick, gleefully, watched Renard come first, but wasn't long after. Feeling deliciously dirty, he lifted his hand and licked Renard's come from his fingers, feeling Renard's eyes on him the entire time.

Renard's arm tightened around him, and he rested his cheek against Renard's shoulder. Renard was still wearing his white shirt, now thoroughly crumpled and stained. No matter. He closed his eyes, completely emptied out, and started drifting away.

~*~

Nick woke with the urgent pressure of his bladder. He'd rolled himself into a sitting position, swaying a little with the queasy roiling in his stomach, and was half-way to his feet when he realized who he'd rolled away from - who was just stirring on the rug, half naked and with a wet spot on his still half-buttoned shirt where Nick had apparently drooled in his sleep.

Nick looked down, appalled, just as Renard squeezed open an eyelid. Before Renard could wake up more fully, he beat a hasty retreat to the bathroom.

When he closed the door behind him, Nick caught a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror on its inside, red-eyed and stubbly, wearing a t-shirt and socks and nothing else. He quickly looked away, fragments from the previous night tumbling through his brain. 

"Priorities," he muttered to himself. Relieving the pressure in his bladder was good, though he couldn't help remembering Renard's hand on his cock, vivid sensory memory coming over him in flashes. 

And then he realized he hadn't brought his jeans with him. He was going to have to walk out as half-naked as he was, and he was _not_ going to do that with an erection. What had he done? What had _the captain_ done?

Nick grimaced, splashed some water on his face to see if he could wash away some of the bleariness, then gave it up as futile. No surprise. Just how many drinks had they downed, in that long night? Just how drunk had Renard been, to let this happen?

Nick's head was pounding in a low, steady rhythm, and his stomach seemed to want to crawl out of his throat, but all of that was normal, and all of that distracted from everything he didn't want to think about and didn't want to feel.

He should be embarrassed, or ashamed. He fingered a sore spot on his cheekbone, courtesy of a brick wall. Had he really punched the captain, pushed him against the wall, thrown him onto the floor? Worse, had they really ...

Nick shook his head, wincing as his headache spiked from the movement. Right now, all he felt was empty, and that was too much of a relief; he didn't want to let go of that. He considered the towel rack, then decided pretending at modesty would be ridiculous now, and walked out the way he'd come.

Renard had scraped himself off the floor and slipped yesterday's clothes back on. He threw Nick a shrewd look, but gave a good impression of not even noticing his nakedness. "Aspirin?" he asked, holding out a bottle.

"Thanks." Nick downed a few pills and squeezed himself into his jeans, swaying a little with the sudden wave of nausea as he sucked in his stomach to close the button. 

Renard had, thankfully, turned away from him. 

He found his hoodie on the couch, nearly falling off the back, and picked it up. His cellphone was still in the zipped pocket. Why had he even brought it? He'd turned it off, after all, seeing as how he'd been avoiding everyone. Then he noticed his underwear on the rug, dirty with dried stickiness, and felt himself flush again. He bent to pick it up, stuffed it into a pocket. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

Holding the hoodie in one hand, Nick looked toward the door. He should probably just leave. Would Renard prefer that? But it felt ... worse.

Renard, from the kitchen range, spared him the choice. He called over to him, "Come on."

Surprised, Nick went over and watched Renard at the sink, filling a large glass with water. He held it out to Nick, an eyebrow raised.

"Thanks," Nick said again, and took a careful sip. When his stomach didn't protest too much, he quickly drained the glass.

Renard had shadows under his eyes, his face looked blotchy, and there was a bruise on his chin where Nick had landed that first punch, the night before. But he seemed altogether too awake, too ... _not_ nauseated. "Don't tell me," he said, a little surly, "you don't get hangovers."

A quick quirk of a smile. "Your metabolism's not exactly standard human either. You'll be fine in a bit."

Nick's hand instinctively went to his stomach, even as he tried to wrap his mind around the sheer ordinariness of the exchange. "I suppose it wouldn't have been so bad if I'd actually eaten anything yesterday," he admitted wryly. "Other than that donut Wu practically shoved in my mouth."

"Coffee?" Renard offered. "Though you should probably go home before they start sending out the search parties."

Nick winced. Monroe and Rosalee had expected him last night; he'd been supposed to stay with them after the funeral. They'd have been waiting. They were going to worry. They were going to scorch him with their pity.

Not Renard, though. 

Renard, calm and matter-of-fact, behaved as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Somehow, inexplicably, nothing seemed to have changed at all. 

If Renard wanted it that way, good. It did make things easier, for both of them.

Everything they'd said and done to each other last night was far away. Nick didn't have to give any answers, or think about consequences. He was on safe ground. Except ...

Nick fought against an instinctive duck of the head. He knew better. Normal was good. Normal was ... something he could deal with.

"Actually," he said, feeling his way, "coffee sounds good."

~*~

"Nick," Renard's voice called out from behind him.

Nick turned around with his hand on the doorknob. This had to be the most bizarre morning he'd ever had, exactly because of how ordinary it was. "Yeah?"

"Get some rest," Renard said. "I know you'd rather be working, but if you come in on Monday looking like you haven't slept all weekend, I'm going to send you home."

Nick scowled. "What, suspend me from school like a naughty kid?"

Renard's eyebrows went up. "If I have to. So see that I don't."

They looked at each other, challenge between them. Then Nick huffed. "Fine," he said, " _Captain_."

  
  


* * *

  
  


Juliette falling, darts sticking out of her neck.

Juliette's coffin, lowered into her grave.

Try as she might, Trubel couldn't get the images out of her head. 

Nick's stony face at the funeral; the way he'd avoided her the last few days. (Avoided everyone, but her in particular, she knew - she knew.)

Worst of all, Nick's devastated expression as Juliette had fallen, as he'd realized what Trubel had done.

 _Realized._ Ha. He'd realized nothing, had been too out of it to suspect anything, even afterwards. 

Half of her had hoped he would - that he'd confront her, demand an explanation, that it would all come out then and there. It hadn't. It wouldn't.

Trubel had stood there, watching, saying nothing. And she'd keep saying nothing. What else could she have done?

She hadn't done it - any of it - because of Chavez's orders. She'd done it because ... because it was better this way. Nick would grieve, but now he could get over it. He would.

He had to.

She'd turned on her heel as the funeral service had ended, had brushed off Rosalee's concerned question. She hadn't been able to bring herself to stay, to look in all their faces and say nothing, do nothing. But there was nothing she could do, no one she could beat up, no one she could fight to make anything better.

Juliette, who might have known the right thing to say, was gone. And Nick, who'd told Trubel she was more than her fighting, who'd made her believe in it, once, who'd given her hope ... Nick wasn't there. In body, yes, but not in mind, not in soul.

So Trubel had walked out. 

She'd walked around town, away from the evening crowds, through empty streets and some of the seedier parts. She didn't know Portland well enough to put a name to the place, or the gangs, but she'd punched out two guys who'd been going after each other, one with a broken bottle in his hand. She'd scared the hell out of a Klaustreich couple. But she'd avoided getting into a real fight.

She knew what she had to do, where she had to go.

Chavez had been at her for days, but she'd deflected - told her Nick would have noticed; they'd all have noticed if she'd left. It might even have been true.

But that wasn't why. Chavez didn't understand - she'd never known Juliette, hadn't cared about her. All she cared about was the danger of a rogue superpowered Hexenbiest neutralized.

_Juliette._

There hadn't been any way to save her; Trubel knew that. There had been no way back. The Juliette she'd known had disappeared, lost in the haze of the Hexenbiest's power, and what had been left was a stranger. Was an enemy.

She'd tried to kill _Nick_.

Trubel had come far out from the busier parts of town, into a residential area that looked disturbingly suburban. She turned a corner and another, heading back in the general direction she'd come ... and came to a stop as the street before her opened up toward the east, a pinkish glow at the horizon. The sky had lightened and was now a gradient of blue above, dark behind in the west and bright ahead. Any moment now dawn would break and low morning sunrays would spear directly into her eyes.

She'd been walking all night.

Her stomach clenched, and for the first time she realized her feet were aching. Her mouth was dry. 

Nothing for it, now. It was go back to Nick's - well, to Monroe's and Rosalee's, where they were both supposed to be staying for the night - or else, go back to base.

And she couldn't face Nick. She couldn't look into his face. Maybe that made her a coward, but she _couldn't_.

There was only one thing to do. One tired, reluctant step after the next. _You have to._

~*~

Trubel straightened her spine before she entered the seemingly empty building, and climbed the stairs knowing she was being watched. Whatever.

The two FBI officers meeting her above would have been no challenge at all, had she been here for a fight. But then, why should they assume she was? For _them_ , everything had gone exactly to plan.

For her as well, Trubel had to admit. No matter how much she'd hated it - for her as well.

She looked around, finding Chavez looking back at her from the back of the room. Just her luck that she was awake this early. Trubel stalked over.

"So you've come back after all, Ms. Rubel," Chavez said mildly.

A brusque "Yeah" was all she could manage.

Agent Chavez tilted her head to the side, examining her, no doubt taking in the effects of a night out walking after a day that had already been long. "This isn't easy for you, is it?" 

"I did it," Trubel snapped. "That's all that matters, isn't it?"

Chavez's eyes were almost gentle. "You should be proud of yourself."

She only felt sick. But it was done.

"Teresa. Are you ready to go in now?" Chavez asked, her eyes glinting, the unspoken _finally_ clear and unmistakable. She'd been waiting for this, Trubel knew. And she wouldn't wait much longer.

Trubel bit her lips and nodded, and after a moment Chavez swept her hand in the direction of the room she'd watched Chavez's people set up days ago. 

They went together. Chavez unlocked the door before them, and for a moment Trubel nearly bolted, needing to avoid this for just a little bit longer.

Trubel swallowed heavily and pushed through the door. "Hello, Juliette."


	3. Chapter 2

On the MAX, Nick picked up his phone. Even if he hadn't left his car downtown the night before, he probably still had alcohol in his system enough for several people to lose their driver's licenses. So, public transport it was.

He had a number of messages and missed calls: Monroe, Hank, Monroe, Monroe again, and Rosalee. He deleted them all unread, unlistened-to.

He'd been avoiding everyone, yesterday, and instead he'd ended up -

Nick's mind shied away from the thought, forced the vivid flashes of memory away. 

_Bad idea_ , Renard had said. Then why hadn't he stopped?

Early morning sunlight glared too brightly in Nick's bleary eyes, and he drew his hoodie tight around him, leaning his head against the window, eyes closed.

He wasn't going home; he hadn't deluded himself about that even for a moment. It would have been a shorter trip, but there was no way he could walk into that house right now.

Monroe and Rosalee would be asleep, anyway. It was safe to go to their place. And he needed ... needed ... 

Nick clenched his eyes more tightly against the too-bright red of sunlight through flesh, and tried to lose himself in the rhythm of the rails.

~*~

Head ducked deep into his hoodie, Nick let himself in quietly. Now he could just -

"Dude!" 

Nick nearly jumped at Monroe's abrupt appearance from the kitchen door. His friend was in pajamas, holding a jar in his hand.

"Where have you been?" Monroe continued, peering at Nick with eyes narrowed in concern. Then he lifted his nose and sniffed a little. His eyes went wide. "Dude!" he exclaimed again. "What the hell?"

"Don't go there," Nick snapped. It came out harsh and angry, but like his glare, it didn't have much of an effect. All he'd wanted was to curl up on Monroe's couch, get some rest close to his friends. Not this. "Seriously, just don't. Why are you even up this early?"

Monroe's hands came up, a placating gesture, but his eyes were shrewd. "Sure, man, whatever you say. Are you okay?" A brief hesitation. "Um, is he?"

He couldn't deal with this. There were no explanations for the night he'd had. Well; Renard might have one. Nick didn't want to know.

"Fine," he said, sullenly. "Leave it be, Monroe. Not in the mood." Never would be. _Don't mention it again, ever,_ was on the tip of his tongue, but that would probably have been overkill.

Renard at least had left well enough alone. Of course, he'd also slept with Adalind - and with Adalind's mother. No wonder it had all been business as usual to _him_.

"Okay, man." 

Monroe's expression was carefully controlled, but Nick knew better than to think that would be the end of it. _Damn._ He crossed his arms over his chest, trying to look defiant rather than defensive.

Monroe turned serious almost like the flip of a switch. "Seriously, though, you okay? We were worried, especially when you wouldn't answer your phone." 

Not a better topic, but Nick grasped at it nonetheless. "Turned it off," he said curtly, and suppressed a grimace when he heard someone coming down the stairs. Great; more people to look at him like _that_. Why had he come here again?

"I'm fine," he said, in the face of Monroe's grating concern. "I'll handle it. I'll be fine, all right?" 

Not his most convincing lie, and sure enough, Monroe called him on it. "Sure you'll be."

And Rosalee, who was just reaching the bottom of the stairs, lifted a hand toward Nick across the room. She was in pajamas, too. "I'm not sure this is the kind of thing you _handle_ ," she said. 

Her kindness was hard to swallow, and Nick had to turn away from it. "Where's Trubel?" he asked, trying to change the subject again.

"Trubel?" Rosalee looked at him in surprise. "We haven't seen her since she went off after the ..." She trailed off with a grimace.

"You can say it," Nick snapped. "After the funeral. You can say it." Then her answer caught up with him. "Wait, she hasn't been here either? She was supposed to."

"Well, we offered," Monroe said, uncertainly. "But she never actually officially accepted or anything." 

Nick could hear the unspoken _Not like you,_ clear as day, and rolled his shoulders uncomfortably.

"I'd have thought she'd stay close to you," Rosalee said. "But, well." She grimaced. "She's probably at your house."

Nick winced. He hadn't been around. He'd left Trubel on her own - and not just yesterday. She'd been close to Juliette, and _she'd_ been the one who'd had to pulled the trigger in the end. All of it was a messy lump of rage, despair and pity in Nick's gut, and he hadn't known how to deal with it. He wouldn't have been any good to her in that state.

_Some friend you are._

"Hey," Monroe said, too gently. "We get it, okay? That's not on you. You don't have to ... That should never have been on you. We'll talk to her when we catch up with her, all right?"

But Trubel was still so young, and he hadn't been there for her. Not even for five minutes after the funeral. He'd walked off - stalked off, if he admitted it to himself, unwilling to talk to anyone. Every condolence had grated, every word of the sermon had grated, and he'd wanted nothing but _out_.

He'd had no right to, should never have let himself be lost inside his own head, should never have needed the space to get a grip on himself.

Nick's gut clenched, and he dug out his phone. "I'll call her," he said, already frantically scrolling through his contacts. Juliette's face smiled at him briefly, for a fraction of a second, until he swiped her off the screen.

Rosalee's hand closed around his wrist. "It's six a.m.," she said gently. "She's probably asleep."

If she'd been able to sleep. But yes, if she had, he should probably let her. "I'll text her," he changed gears. "And -" An embarrassed wince. "Do you mind if I crash on your couch for a bit? I ..."

"Dude, the spare room's all made up for you," Monroe said, sounding almost offended. "Go and get some proper sleep." He sniffed. "But take a shower first, you don't want someone else to smell the things I can smell on you right now."

Nick winced again, but went, glad for the escape, typing out a brief text message to Trubel as he climbed the stairs.

~*~

Coming back was strange. Nick had only been away for a day, but the house felt vacant, uninhabited. He looked around the empty downstairs, every corner a flash of memory to that last fight and the way it had ended. The way he'd sat on this floor, cradling Juliette's dead body, mind blank of anything but the constant echo of _no, no, no_ , unable to move beyond that instinctive, bone-deep denial.

How had he managed the last week here? It was all a haze. 

A muffled sound from upstairs had him instantly alert. Trubel? She'd texted earlier, told him she'd be back this evening. It was afternoon now.

Nick tip-toed to the stairs and climbed to the upper floor silently, with the practice of having lived in this house for years. He knew every squeaky plank, every prone-to-creaking section of banister to avoid, so he wouldn't wake Juliette when he came home late.

He winced, forcing the memory aside, and focused on his enhanced hearing. There was a voice upstairs: a woman's voice.

He'd reached the landing when he realized. _Adalind._ How had he forgotten about her? How had he managed?

She'd been staying with Bud, safely out of the way. He'd let himself put her out of his mind. Now he remembered that Bud's wife had been scheduled to come home this morning, so of course Adalind would ...

Nick swallowed harshly. That was the arrangement. She'd stay here until the baby was a few weeks old, and then they'd find some other accommodation. He didn't want her here, but he didn't want the baby anywhere else, and, well. That was the arrangement. 

He put out a hand against the wall to steady himself, trying to get himself under control, wishing his heart were actually racing, to account for the feeling. But his pulse was steady as ever. 

Adalind's voice came from the spare room, the one Trubel had been using the last time she'd been here. Talking to someone?

Nick stood very still, listening. She wasn't an enemy right now; she was pregnant with his child; he was protecting her. But she was still Adalind, after all.

"I don't want to be talking to you either," Adalind said, sounding irritated and fed up. There were no signs of anyone else in the house; she seemed to be on the phone.

He could hardly expect her to isolate herself completely. But pregnancy or no - trust was beyond him. Or perhaps especially considering her pregnancy, given the way her last had gone.

That was on him, partly - but only partly. Adalind was who she was, and what had happened then had only been another move in a much-longer game.

He'd been ready to kill her for everything she'd done. He still wanted to, at times. 

"It's because of Diana!" she snapped. "I need to know, Sean. Have you found out _anything_ about my daughter?"

 _Our daughter,_ Nick automatically supplied Renard's correction, then winced. His son, Renard's daughter; they were going to be half-siblings. What a mess.

Nick forced himself to focus on what he could hear from Adalind's room, concentrating hard. He didn't want to be thinking about Renard, or what he was going to do or say when he saw the man again.

What Renard would say.

When Adalind's voice came again, she sounded weary, and her voice had dropped so low it was at the very edge of Nick's hearing. "There has to be something." Another pause, then, "You'll keep looking? And - Sean, please, if you find something, _anything_ , let me know." Pleading, now. You could almost feel sorry for her.

No, that was wrong; Nick could manage to feel sorry for her all right. It just didn't change anything. 

"Fine." Adalind sounded disgusted, and there was a dull, muffled sound Nick couldn't identify. "Later, Sean." The sound came again, and Nick realized Adalind had punched a pillow. No doubt Renard had declined to make any promises; that was just like the man.

He stood still, indecisive, for another moment; then made himself walk up to the guest room door and knock. "Adalind, is that you?" he asked. "I heard someone upstairs."

"It's me," came the weary voice. "Come in, Nick."

Nick opened the door and made himself look at her, straight-on. She was hugely pregnant by now; her due date was only a little over a week away. She'd never looked less dangerous. 

"All set up," she said, fake-brightly, combing her hair out of her face with a tired hand. "Bud drove me over this morning. It's a pain with this belly." 

He was glad Bud had taken care of everything. Nick hadn't had to help her move in, hadn't had to carry her things, or help her upstairs.

He could touch her now without every muscle in his body going tense, without every inch of him trying to flinch away. He could look at her without flashing back to that day, and that night.

Adalind, pretending to be Juliette, and he hadn't noticed. Juliette, looking like Adalind, and he'd had to put on a brave front, had to smile and bear it - and he'd managed, because it had been Juliette. His gut roiled.

He couldn't punch her. He couldn't throw her out of his house. He couldn't do _anything_.

"You got everything?" he forced himself to ask.

She looked at him from eyes fallen half-shut, and yawned. "I'll yell if I need something," she said drily. 

They'd have to talk properly, at some point, about how things were going to go after the baby was born. Nick knew they had to. Just ... not now. Not yet. There was a little time left, and maybe the right words would come to him, the right thing to do.

Yeah, right.

"Okay," Nick said lamely. "I'll be downstairs."

Adalind waved a hand in dismissal and curled up on the bed, sighing as she wrapped her arms around her belly, and Nick let himself retreat.

~*~

The door to the master bedroom stood slightly open, and Nick went in. He was still in yesterday's clothes, and while jeans and a t-shirt were as forgiving as it got, he really could use a change.

His eyes fell on the bed, and he stopped. The sheets were tousled - he hadn't bothered to make up the bed, yesterday morning. Or any morning that week. It looked too much like ... like ...

Nick turned away, into the bathroom, and dry-heaved into the basin. He didn't look up. His fingers clenched on the edge, cool ceramic under his hands as he stared into the drain.

That bed. How had he slept in there all week? It was full of ghosts. Adalind, gleefully deceiving, taking his powers away. Juliette, trying to help, damning herself. Kenneth, who'd taunted him about it.

He retched again, then forced himself to do what he'd come here for. A shower; a change of clothes. Washing himself with eyes clenched, soapy hands on too-raw skin, feeling alien. How had he managed to stand Renard's touch last night?

Nick winced at the thought, tried to scrub the memory away.

Afterwards, dried and dressed, he ripped the sheets from the bed and stuffed them into the hamper, then stared down at the bare bed. Not any better. No; he couldn't sleep in there.

He snatched up another change of clothes, then his toothbrush. That would have to do.

When the door shut behind him, it was a relief.

~*~

On the landing, Nick froze again. Downstairs, the front door had clicked shut. Someone had come in.

It was probably nothing, just one of his friends who had a key to the house. But his mother had walked into this very house expecting no ill, and found a trap. 

Found her murderer. 

Nick remained on the landing, straining his senses for any hint of what was happening downstairs. His mother would have approved. 

Downstairs, a tinny melody started playing, a generic ringtone. Then it cut off abruptly. "I'm at the house," Trubel's voice said tersely.

Just Trubel. Nick breathed in relief, and started down the stairs. He might not relish the idea, but he'd failed her enough. Maybe they could talk now. 

"Whatever," Trubel told whoever was on the phone; then she fell silent, listening. "Yes, I -" Trubel's eyes went wide as she spotted Nick coming down the stairs. "Later, all right?" she said urgently, and cut off the call, tossing her phone onto the couch almost like getting rid of something unpleasant.

Nick's skin began to prickle again. He kept his steady pace down the stairs. "Hi, Trubel," he said, his smile painfully strained. 

"Hey, Nick." Trubel's face was tense, and her eyes searched his face. "I know I said tonight, but -"

"You don't have to explain," Nick interrupted. "You're staying here." He hesitated. "Sorry about the room. Adalind -"

"Yeah, I get it," she said, voice hurried and eyes nervous. "Seriously, the couch is fine, don't worry about it."

A thought occurred to him. "Hey, do you want to take the master bedroom for now? I don't really want to go in there right now."

Trubel stared at him, wide-eyed. That was clearly not what she'd expected. But whatever else was up with her, this was Trubel. He'd find out, he'd help her - as he'd helped her before - and it would be all right.

He couldn't even wrap his head around everything that had happened, had just barely begun to process the fact that Juliette was gone. That it had been Trubel who'd - who'd done it.

But she was just a kid. He could be there for her. This much, he told himself, he could do.

Trubel's eyes went to the ceiling. "Are you sure?" she asked hesitantly. Afraid the offer was going to get yanked away. It was almost enough to make Nick smile. 

He shrugged. "Not the first time I've slept on the couch." 

Trubel came up to him and quickly, awkwardly, put her arms around him for a brief, aborted squeeze. "Thanks, Nick. Just - if you change your mind, tell me right away, okay?"

"I'm glad you're here," Nick managed. "Listen, I'm sorry I've been so -"

"No," she interrupted again. "I get it, you don't have to -"

"No, really," he insisted. "I'm here, all right? We'll talk. Just -"

"It's fine," she said, genuinely. "Take your time, Nick. I'll be upstairs, okay?"

Half bereft, half relieved, Nick waved her off. He watched her gather up her duffel, and stomp up the stairs as she had so many times before. It was a different door that closed behind her, but it closed just as audibly. Nick's insides clenched.

And then he saw Trubel's phone in the corner of the couch where she'd tossed it earlier.

He stared at it for what felt like an eternity, but couldn't have been more than few seconds. Then, feeling like a coward and a traitor, he reached out for it.

Swiping at the screen was almost a reflex. When he didn't encounter a lock screen, Nick felt sick more than surprised. No convenient obstacles to force him to rethink. Trubel must have set it on a time limit; he couldn't imagine her so careless as to have a completely unsecured phone. Five minutes; that would do it.

He almost checked, but recognized the impulse for procrastination. _Do it or don't, Nick._

His finger stilled over the screen for a long moment. But that phone call hadn't been nothing; _something_ was up with Trubel. She'd been out all night, too.

He ruthlessly suppressed the voice at the back of his head calling him a hypocrite.

It was Juliette that decided him. He'd known something was wrong, long before she'd told him the truth. She'd been acting strangely, withdrawing from him - avoiding his touch, avoiding him, and he hadn't understood why. But he hadn't asked, hadn't looked into things, had done nothing but pull away in return. If he'd been more suspicious, would things have been different? If he'd found out sooner, could he have done more?

Probably not. The Hexenbiest had overwhelmed her; by the end, little had been left of the woman he'd loved.

But he couldn't look away again, couldn't risk waiting too long again. Never again. And if Trubel was hiding something, confronting her might help - or it might do the opposite. Perhaps if this time he trusted less ...

No, no, no, not trusted less, but paid attention more. Too little, too late, but ... _This is for you, Juliette._

Feeling sick to his stomach, Nick went to work. Looking up and writing down the number of Trubel's last call was the obvious first step; it was done in a moment. Bugging her phone took not much longer; the spying software downloaded quickly. 

Spying on Trubel, though. Did he really want to?

For a moment he nearly undid his work. But instead, he resolutely put the phone down where he'd picked it up and turned away, heading into the kitchen for a drink.

~*~

The house was quiet, but Nick's Grimm senses were in overdrive again, and he could hear every creak, every movement above, Trubel in the master bedroom and Adalind in the guest room. And his own movements here, downstairs on his own, loud in the silence.

Nick shifted on the couch. He wasn't tired, but after zapping through the channels without interest, leafing through a book without taking in a word, he'd decided to lie down early anyway. 

He'd poured himself a drink, too, but the smell of alcohol had jerked him back to the night before, and he'd pushed the glass away, unable - unwilling - to face the memories.

Not now.

Nick turned over and pulled up his blanket, listening to the infuriating steadiness of his heartbeat, trying not to think.

~*~

_Juliette raises her hand to cup his cheek. Her face is her own, but he knows the moment their lips touch, she will shift, and he can't._

_He can't stop. He can't pull away. She's making him meet her, slowly, inexorably, and he clenches his eyes tight against it. Her breath is on his face, and then her lips, and -_

_\- and it's not Juliette's lips on his, human or Hexenbiest. Nick's eyes snap open. It's Renard, woged, one eye dead and gone, sore-looking tissue around it. The lips that touched his are only half there, flesh withdrawn from the corner of a mouth, that side of his face dead and desiccated._

_It's Renard's hand cupping his cheek, then pulling away and striking him hard, back-handed, across the face._

_Nick lands heavily, painfully, on his back. Above him, Juliette raises her hand for the killing strike._

_Laughter._

_Blonde hair in the corner of his eye. Blue eyes flash. Adalind throws her head back, and laughs, and laughs._

_Above him, Juliette raises her hand._

_Juliette raises her hand -_

Nick jerked awake, sitting up breathing hard.

His pulse was calm as ever.

~*~

Nick breathed in the smell of coffee grounds and turned on the coffee maker with a sigh. One more empty day; then he'd be back to work. Thank God for Monday.

Though at this rate, Renard was going to just send him home again. He'd slept badly, tossing and turning interrupted by nightmares. The furious haze of the last week had dissipated, and the empty numbness from the day before was abandoning him, too. What was left was confused and bitter and impossible to disentangle. 

Loud footsteps clattered down the stairs. Trubel; Adalind - even if she'd ever condescend to wearing shoes that might make that kind of sound - couldn't have managed the rapid-fire speed this close to her due date.

Nick looked up when she stormed into the kitchen, managing a smile. "Morning, Trubel. You're up early."

"You too." Trubel grimaced. "Listen, I'm going out. I can't -" She looked away.

"I get it," Nick said. "Just - you don't have to go away, okay? If you want to talk ...?" Maybe if he gave her an opening, she'd say something.

She winced. "Sorry."

Nick nodded, unsurprised. "You can always come here, okay?" he reminded her. "I get that sometimes it's easier to just walk out." Better than anyone. "But I'm here. Sorry I wasn't, earlier." He reached out to squeeze her shoulder. She was tense under his hand, but then, she always had been. She'd only just started to relax, to believe in her place in Nick's and Juliette's lives, when she'd left the last time.

"See you later, Nick." And she was away.

Nick looked after her from the kitchen window, watched her roll Juliette's old bike down the drive and onto the street until she was out of sight. 

The coffee maker beeped at him; he ignored it.

With a feeling of dread in his stomach, he pulled out his phone and texted the activation code to hers. There; done. Now all that was left was to listen. Wherever she went, whoever she talked to. He set his phone on the counter, speakers on, and simply stood, staring at it.

When the dial tone began to sound, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

That had barely been a minute; Trubel must have waited just long enough to be around the corner. A glance at the screen told him she'd dialed the number from last night again.

"Yes?" said a woman's voice on the other end. It sounded almost familiar to Nick.

"I'm on my way back now," Trubel said, sounding tense and apologetic.

"Teresa, I understand your need to be with your friends," the woman said. "But I worry that you're only making this harder on yourself."

"Don't push me!" Trubel told her. "I _had_ to be here, they'd have noticed!"

"You are a Grimm," the woman said, and with that word, Nick's brain finally managed to put a name to the voice. _Chavez._ "You're needed here, Teresa. You know that."

Agent Chavez, the Steinadler FBI agent who'd investigated Renard's shooting, almost exactly nine months ago now. The woman who'd kidnapped Trubel and had tried to recruit her for some kind of Wesen taskforce. Trubel had been terrified of her then. Now she was working with her?

"Yes," Trubel said hoarsely. "I know I can't ..." 

"You did what you had to do."

"I know! There wasn't anything else." That sounded bitter, or perhaps pained. 

"I'll see you when you get in," Chavez said, and the call ended.

"Dammit," Nick heard Trubel mutter; then there were vague shuffling sounds as she put the phone away. "Dammit, dammit, dammit," came through still audible but muffled.

Nick stared at his own phone, whose speakers had gone quiet. What the hell?

He remembered Trubel hiding out at the trailer, terrified of Chavez - ready to run so Chavez would have no reason to go after Nick and Juliette, who had taken her in. How had Chavez got her hands on Trubel again? And why hadn't Trubel come to Nick? Was she being blackmailed?

Nick sat up straighter, fury boiling in his stomach, eyes narrowing in determination. He had to help Trubel, get her out of whatever she'd got herself into. But first he needed to figure out what Chavez was doing in town again.

She wouldn't get away with threatening his friends this time.

~*~

It was a while until the phone's microphone picked up anything interesting again. Nick had tracked Trubel via GPS, and the map showed her somewhere in the southeast now. Trubel had biked quite a way across town.

"It's me. I'm alone," Trubel said eventually.

A male voice, barely audible, said something Nick couldn't make out. Nick put the phone to his ear and went searching for his earphones. There seemed to be a murmur of voices in the background. How many people were there? It must be Chavez's base. He'd have to check out the address later.

Another voice from the background, not quite intelligible. "Hey," Trubel said in reply, her muffled voice clear as day in comparison. "What do you need me to do?"

"Right now?" That was Chavez's voice again, though Nick wouldn't have recognized her if he hadn't listened in on the much clearer phone call earlier. "Nothing, Teresa. I merely want you to be safe."

"I was safe at Nick's," Trubel snapped, sounding petulant.

"You may be a Grimm, but you're not invulnerable," Chavez said reasonably. "And I know you consider him a friend, but there is more at stake here, you know that. Don't put yourself through that - you're only making it harder on yourself."

Nick finally found his earphones in a drawer, and plugged them in. He lowered the phone, fingers tense around the plastic, a vast wave of rage building in his gut. He kept it inside by sheer force of will.

What was Chavez doing to Trubel?

"Whatever," Trubel said sullenly. "It doesn't matter. You want me to go in again?"

"Why?" Chavez sounded exasperated. "It was less than useful yesterday. I admit I'd hoped."

"I know that!" Trubel nearly shouted. "I just - I just have to. Please." Her pleading was painful in Nick's ears.

"You're torturing yourself, Teresa." A moment's quiet. Then, "All right. We can try again. Go ahead; I'll join you in a moment."

"Thanks," Trubel said, and after a moment the murmur of voices in the background seemed to be retreating.

Nothing for several eternal seconds. Then an indistinct mumble in Trubel's voice; finally a metallic clanking sound, and silence again.

And then - 

"Trubel." A woman's voice, from far away, snarling. "You again. What now?" 

A woman's voice, from far away, but clear enough. A familiar, impossible, unmistakable voice.

Suddenly, all Nick could hear was his own blood rushing in his ears, the rhythm of his heart pulsing waves of white noise against his eardrums. For a moment it drowned out anything coming from the phone.

Juliette's voice.

He had to be imagining things.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Trubel stared at the woman behind the flimsy-looking bars. Hard to believe they could contain her, but Chavez had been certain, and yesterday she'd seen it herself - the fury of the Hexenbiest unleashed, slamming into an invisible barrier, again and again, entirely contained. The Hexenbiest had screeched in helpless, impotent anger, her terrible face contorted even more.

No; there was nothing of Juliette left in _that_. 

"Having fun behind bars?" Trubel asked brusquely. "You're going to stay there for a long, long time."

The Hexenbiest stared back at her with Juliette's eyes. But Juliette's face had never held such hardness, such hatred. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" she asked with a sneer. "Playing the big bad Grimm. You're still just a puppy, Trubel. And now the woman you wanted to run away from is the one who's calling you to heel."

Trubel felt herself stiffen, but she wouldn't give the Hexenbiest the satisfaction of a hit. "And whose dog are you? Working for the Royals like a good little Hexenbitch, weren't you."

Was that a flinch? If so, it was gone as soon as it had come. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"The hell I don't! I know what you are, what you've done. You know what Nick's going through? All because of you!" Trubel bared her teeth. "But of course you don't care about that - that was _Juliette_. You just care about power, like Hexenbiests do."

"You have some nerve. I took you in! You were a criminal, Trubel - under suspicion for violent assault, murder, theft, God knows what. Guilty of most, too, weren't you? But I took you in anyway. And this is how you repay me."

Trubel swallowed down the bile at the back of her throat. "You can stop pretending," she said harshly. "I know you're not Juliette. Juliette is dead, and you're what's left."

The Hexenbiest snarled, wogeing at her in fury, hand lashing out - another wave of telekinetic energy, flashing against the barrier, dissolving into nothing. "Maybe she is, and you've killed her."

Trubel stared it down, that horrifying visage, that twisted remnant of the woman who'd - who'd -

The woge melted away. For a moment Trubel wished she could just toss the bars aside and punch the Hexenbiest into her face, Juliette's face, until she stopped looking so like her when she wasn't. But she couldn't, so she merely clenched her fists at her side and glared.

The stalemate was interrupted by the door behind her opening. Trubel didn't turn, didn't move her eyes from the Hexenbiest. After a moment, Chavez came to stand beside her, looking between them.

"This isn't helpful, you know," she said mildly. Then, to the Hexenbiest, "All you have to do is answer our questions. You'll find we're capable of providing much more comfortable accommodation."

The woman in the cage snarled and woged again in anger; Chavez briefly woged in turn, then snapped her bird's head to the side and returned to her human visage. "That won't get you anywhere, and you know it. Now, I'll ask this again - how did they make you?"

The Hexenbiest glared, then turned away, leaning against the side of her cage where it met the wall. She hadn't answered any questions at all. Chavez had hoped confronting her with Trubel would make something slip, but it hadn't. Still loyal to her Royal masters, Trubel supposed, insofar as a Hexenbiest ever was truly loyal.

"We know you were human," Chavez continued relentlessly. "Making a Hexenbiest, and one of such power, is quite the feat. You're very impressive. Come on, what does it hurt you to tell?"

The Hexenbiest, leaning against the wall, was looking down at her feet. She didn't seem to be listening to Chavez at all. 

_Wouldn't you like to know,_ had been all she'd said, yesterday.

They'd gone through this before - many times probably, in Trubel's absence. It hadn't got Chavez any answers yet, and Trubel didn't think it would. Not like this.

But they'd have to find a way to neutralize her powers before they could question the Hexenbiest using other means; Chavez's people were still working on that. Feeding her Trubel's blood hadn't done a thing.

Besides, some answers, Trubel had to hope she wouldn't get. She didn't want Chavez anywhere near Nick.

Chavez took a step closer to the bars, then another, close enough that, without the barrier, the Hexenbiest could simply have reached out and grabbed her. As it was, they might as well have been separated by a moat.

"You were human once," Chavez said quietly. "Don't you remember that? You weren't working for the Royals then. Whatever they promised you - we can do better."

"She doesn't care about Juliette's old life," Trubel said harshly, with a dark glare at the Hexenbiest. Chavez thought the Royals had turned her, but it was so much worse. Juliette had gone to them on her own, and betrayed everyone on the way. 

The Hexenbiest turned her head slightly to glare at her.

"Maybe she doesn't," Chavez said reasonably, "but even Hexenbiests have family. Not you, of course," a nod toward the woman in the cage, "not any more - you dropped your Kehrseite boyfriend as soon as you turned, didn't you?"

Trubel suppressed a twitch. The Hexenbiest's eyes snapped to Chavez's face for the flicker of an eyelid; then she looked away again, nonchalant and bored as before. She said nothing at all. But Trubel hadn't missed the moment. No-longer-Juliette had noticed the secret Trubel had kept - she'd understood Chavez still had no idea Nick was a Grimm.

And she wasn't giving him away.

If she'd thought about it before, Trubel would have expected the Hexenbiest to use this opportunity for revenge. She'd refused to answer questions about herself, but this was different. Here, she had the chance to set Chavez on Nick, and she didn't.

It didn't mean anything; it couldn't mean anything. She was just refusing to say anything at all. She wasn't Juliette any more, after all.

"You know we can't let you go," Chavez continued, "but you don't have to stay like this. Let us help you. Just tell us how they made you - let us make sure they won't make more."

At that, the Hexenbiest's head came up after all, and for a long moment she simply stared at Chavez; then she threw her head back and laughed, long and hard and hysterical, sounding nothing like Juliette at all.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This would have been up earlier if not for a mishap with my file. But here we go!

Nick stepped on the brake and brought the car to a near-screeching halt.

He'd only made it a few hundred yards or so from the house, fingers clenched around the steering wheel, his double-sided axe propped in the foot well on the passenger's side, red-hazed fury pulsing in his head.

Getting down there, storming their building, throwing everything he had at Chavez and her people, punching his way through every obstacle until he had her under control, demanding answers was tempting. But those were FBI agents, and Grimms weren't immune to bullets. Blindly bursting in on an unknown number of Wesen with guns? He wouldn't bet on his chances. He needed more, needed to know what he was up against.

Grabbing Trubel by the shoulders and shaking her until some truth fell out - yes, but he couldn't snatch her out of there, could he? He'd have to wait until she came back on her own.

And driving rage-blind was a very bad idea. 

Nick leaned his forehead against the wheel and breathed through clenched teeth. His hands were threatening to warp the plastic. Every sinew and muscle in his body was strung impossibly tight. Any moment now he'd snap. He _wanted_ to snap, wanted to unleash himself at someone.

Chavez. Trubel. Juliette.

Trubel had lied to him. His mind caught on that. Trubel, who'd been like a little sister. She'd let him believe - let all of them believe -

Trubel hadn't killed Juliette to save him. She'd stood there, looking at him falling apart over Juliette's dead body. She'd stood there, at a faked funeral. She'd stayed at his house, all this time, knowing the truth.

 _Juliette's dead body._

He'd held her in his arms as she died; he'd held her for a long time after. How could she be alive? What had Trubel and Chavez _done_?

Trubel hadn't told Chavez everything, he reminded himself. She hadn't betrayed him completely. Except she'd helped Chavez kidnap Juliette, was keeping her prisoner, and had let Nick think -

Nick was glad Trubel wasn't in front of him right now. He wasn't sure what he'd do. He could almost see his fist in Trubel's face.

No. Whatever she'd done, she was just a kid. It was Chavez who was behind all this. And Chavez had kidnapped Trubel before; Trubel had been terrified.

Chavez -

_Blow after blow raining down on Kenneth's body, Kenneth's face; Kenneth's blood on the ground ..._

No. _No._ His aunt had taught him better than that. _Be angry. But think._

Juliette wasn't dead. He had to do something. But what? 

It hadn't been her fault, in the beginning. It had been the potion. It had been him. It had all been because of him, because he'd wanted, _needed_ to be a Grimm again. And now it wasn't over, and he had to ... he had to ...

Nick had spent the last week - more than that - trying not to think about how things might have gone differently. It had been too late for that. He'd told himself it had been inevitable; that was the only way he'd been able to keep moving forward. 

But Juliette wasn't dead.

What could he have done? What could anyone have done? Would anything have made a difference, or would they have ended up there anyway, back in their house in a fight that could only end in death?

Would anything make a difference _now_? Would he have to go through the horror of last week all over again? Could he?

_Juliette's hand, raised for the killing strike -_

He hadn't been able to kill her, even in self-defense. He'd thought Trubel ... 

Nick clamped down on the thought. Trubel hadn't. 

As Juliette was dying, he'd thought there'd been a spark of her old self, that she'd been with him, in that last moment, just enough. Maybe that spark had always been there.

Maybe it made no difference. But then again, maybe it did.

Juliette wasn't dead.

Juliette was in Chavez's hands.

What was Chavez going to do to her? Whether or not she got what she wanted. Who was she? Who was she working for? Really the FBI?

Except that kidnapping Juliette, faking her death, didn't sound very FBI. Besides, Wesen, like Grimms, tended to work around law enforcement, not with it. He should know.

Nick hadn't been able to kill her. Chavez could contain her, but.

But.

~*~

The door to the spice shop was locked. It was Sunday, after all. But Rosalee had mentioned the day before that they'd be doing inventory. _Normality_ , Nick thought bitterly, and knocked.

Monroe's face peered out through the glass panel; then the door opened. "Nick!" he said, surprised, and called over his shoulder, "It's Nick."

"Hey, guys," Nick said awkwardly, ducking his head. He hadn't been able to come up with a script. But turning to Monroe for help had become second nature to him; it had been the only thing he could think to do.

 _Juliette_ was bouncing around in his head, and every time he thought her name, all other thought scattered, shattering into pieces. She was alive.

Alive.

Rosalee was behind the counter, turned toward the door with a comically surprised expression on her face. She put down the clipboard she was holding.

"Wait," Monroe said, "check off the Syrian Rue first before we forget. I just counted all those boxes."

"Right, sorry," Rosalee made a quick mark, then, "Good to see you, Nick."

Monroe hesitated, eyeing him shrewdly. "Something you need? Or are you just ..." He trailed off.

"Just," Nick repeated, equally eloquent. It was true enough; he didn't know what he needed.

_A target for his fury. A target for his grief._

An expression of relief shivered over Monroe's face, and Rosalee's eyes lightened visibly as she saw Monroe relax. She came out from behind the counter, offered Nick a brief squeeze of the shoulder, then almost too carefully put a hand on Monroe's arm.

"Do you want a cup of tea?" she asked. "It's still hot."

"Sure. Thanks," Nick said, and they sat down together, Rosalee pouring from a thermos into honest-to-goodness porcelain cups, then sitting next to her husband, leaning into him a little. For both their comfort, Nick sensed.

Nick lifted his cup. "Um. This isn't some kind of potion, is it?"

Monroe rolled his eyes at him. "Yeah, dude, we were totally planning on getting doped on magic, and now we're fobbing it off on you to see how it affects a Grimm." Then he winced. Remembering what side effects had done to their lives, no doubt.

Yeah.

Nick suppressed a grimace, and said nothing. He sipped from his cup, the warm, spicy liquid soothing his throat but doing nothing for the knot in his stomach or the confusion in his brain. How to start - what to say? He couldn't find words.

"How are things with Trubel?" Monroe asked. "You talk to her? She called last night, said she'd finally run into you."

"Yeah," Nick managed. "She ..." He trailed off. He'd been handed the perfect prompt. All he had to do now was say it. _She's lied to us._ Four words, enough to get started, and everything would follow from there.

His eyes darted to the side.

Right there was the place Monroe had stood as Juliette had forced the muzzle of Nick's gun in his direction, as she'd controlled Nick's body to make him shoot his friend.

She hadn't been trying to kill Monroe, precisely - she'd have had easier ways for that. It had all been about Nick. But if Hank hadn't saved him, Monroe would have been just as dead.

Nick bit down on the words.

"She's taking this pretty hard, too," Rosalee said. "Poor girl." 

Nick's teeth were clenched so hard his jaw was beginning to hurt.

"At least things have calmed down a bit," Monroe said, looking a little hopeful, then threw a sideways glance at Nick. "What with the Royals gone for now, and everything."

"It's good to have some peace and quiet," Rosalee agreed, squeezing her husband's arm a little. "It's been a bad year."

For all of them. Adalind's curse and Nick's stolen Grimm powers, and his mother's death; Monroe's abduction and near-killing at the hands of the Wesenrein; Renard's shooting and later possession by Jack the Ripper ... Juliette's transformation had been neither the beginning nor the end of it.

But it was the one part that wasn't _over_ , other than Adalind's pregnancy.

"Yeah," Nick said, and swallowed another mouthful of tea around the lump in his throat. How could he rip their hard-won peace away from them, tell them the next crisis wasn't only on the horizon, but right on top of them?

"Good riddance," Monroe muttered. "To all of it."

 _Whoever that was, I'm done trying to help it,_ Monroe had said, after nearly being shot to death.

"Yeah," Nick said again. He couldn't put this on them; he'd have to solve this on his own, make it all _end_ somehow, well or not. With a blinding flash of insight, he suddenly understood perfectly why Juliette hadn't told him the truth earlier, why she'd kept silent for so long.

Nick finished his tea and made a hasty retreat, feeling adrift. He wasn't sure what he'd hoped for, from Monroe and Rosalee. The Blutbad had been his anchor in the Wesen world for a long time, and Rosalee had always been a fountain of answers, her apothecary's knowledge the solution to so many of his - their - problems. 

But not for this. With this, he was on his own.

Maybe he deserved that. 

_You'd laugh, Juliette._

~*~

The rest of the day passed in a haze. Nick started by walking around the block, trying to clear his head, trying to capture some thought, some thread of a plan before he got back into his car and drove ... wherever he was going to drive.

You couldn't walk off rage, of course. Nor grief, or betrayal, or the miasma of terror and confusion and gut-wrenching, impossible _hope_ that was clouding around him. God knew he'd tried. But he had no idea what else to do.

_The definition of insanity: repeating the same actions, and expecting a different outcome._

Juliette ...

He checked in on Trubel, more than once, sitting in his car, going nowhere. But he heard nothing new, nothing that gave him any help figuring out what his next step should be. 

Juliette ...

He didn't want to fight her again. He couldn't. But what else was there? If he just left her to Chavez, what would that solve? He'd never be sure. It would never be over.

Even if he could have stomached the thought.

Keeping her locked up had worked out so well last time, too, he thought bitterly. What had he thought that would solve? He'd been stalling, that was it. But what else was there when he didn't know what to do?

If he cornered Trubel, made her tell him everything - that would be a start. Unless she betrayed him to Chavez ... again. 

God. Juliette ...

They hadn't actually _talked_ since the day she'd confessed the truth to him. He'd walked out on her. Nick winced at the thought. Had that been the start of it?

 _I didn't want to hurt you,_ Juliette had said that day, and, _I was afraid you were going to kill me._ And from what Renard had said, she'd wanted nothing but her life back when she'd come to him. How had things gone so wrong from there?

If he could have taken her in his arms and -

_Her woged hand against his cheek._

Nick shivered. Other Hexenbiests he could deal with, more or less. But _Hexenbiest_ and _Juliette_ in the same breath, the same body, the same person ... that wasn't nearly the same. She was already under his skin.

She'd been right to leave him. It was growing dark when he thought it, bitterly, dark like the night he'd walked out into after her confession. 

Renard, though. That was a thought. Juliette had trusted Renard when she hadn't been able to trust Nick. 

Why had she turned to Renard? Because he was a Zauberbiest, because his mother was a Hexenbiest? Because they'd both been under a curse together? Because something in her knew it would be safe.

It hadn't helped, though. 

_I should have ...,_ Renard had said, confessing his failure to help Juliette.

Nick's shoulders rolled uncomfortably at the memory of their drunken night. Renard's shoulders against the wall, their eyes locked; Renard's fingers under his, electric inadvertent touch; Renard's body on top of him, solid and warm ... 

The heat of it flashed through him again, and his skin was all gooseflesh in a moment. He forced the reaction from his thoughts, set it aside. It didn't matter; couldn't matter. Renard hadn't helped Juliette, not enough, and he knew it.

Nick could use that.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Renard looked at the security monitor with some bemusement. After Friday night, the last person he'd have expected to find on his doorstep was Nick Burkhardt.

The Grimm was holding a double-sided battleaxe propped over his shoulder, making no effort to hide it.

To say Nick hadn't taken the last several weeks' events well was understatement to rival the best Renard had ever heard; Nick had been on edge and near to exploding even before his mother's death, before that last fatal fight with Juliette. Since then he'd alternated between a terrifying focused rage that seemed to have melted away the last traces of the young, innocent detective who'd joined Renard's precinct years ago, and a sort of mindless, grey-faced stupor that had him staring into nothing for long stretches of time.

Then there had been the night of the funeral.

Before that, Nick might conceivably have come to him for any number of reasons, though he never had. After their mutual loss of control, that long reckless night drenched in a furious alcoholic haze ... no. Despite the effort Renard had gone to, re-establishing the appropriate distance between them afterwards, he'd fully expected the ill-advised night to stand between them for some considerable time. He could handle that; there had been worse things standing between them, once upon a time. But he hadn't exactly relished the prospect, inevitable though it was.

Yet Nick had come nonetheless. For him to be here now, something exceptional had to have happened. 

Renard opened the door, wry amusement overlying his nascent worry. Opening the door to a Grimm with an axe; who'd have thought? Then again, Grimms out to get you generally didn't ring the door bell.

The Grimm in question looked drawn yet focused, eyes dark and piercing. Some of the dangerous energy that had vibrated in him after the funeral seemed to have dissipated. The bruise on his cheekbone had faded. There was a strange focus around him, and he looked more like his mother than Renard was altogether comfortable seeing.

It made for quite the striking image, though.

Renard waved him inside silently, calculating. Nick pushed past him, right into the living room - pushing through his discomfort, no doubt, something more urgent than regret or embarrassment driving him ahead. When Renard followed at a less energetic pace, he found Nick standing at the French doors, looking out over the nocturnal lights of the city.

Déjà vu. Renard remembered vividly the day Juliette had burst into his house in just that way, had stood at those same French doors, stiff back turned to Renard, nerving herself up to a confession.

The axe now dangling in Nick's hand was new, though.

"Nick?" he asked, feeling more than a little off-balance.

What Juliette had come to tell him, to ask of him, had only been the start of a months-long downward spiral for them all. And it had started here, just like this.

He'd failed to help her, and she'd turned to his enemies instead. He was going to have to do better this time. Not the least because he couldn't afford to have Nick as an enemy.

Nick turned, determination in his eyes, and Renard half expected him to suddenly woge, the echo too vivid, too surreal - but instead, he said, "Juliette is alive."

Renard briefly lost control of his features, his shock showing through. "What? How?" was all he could manage to say, his mind flying through implications - repercussions more than reasons or explanations. It never paid to lose track of what would follow, getting too absorbed in the hows and the whys. He'd let himself forget that, Friday night, and he was only glad it hadn't turned out worse. 

"... who?" he added after a moment. A crucial factor.

Nick's eyes widened; then he smirked - a shadow of his usual humor, but there nonetheless. "FYI, your next question should be _where_."

Renard's eyebrows went up. "Tell me," he demanded.

Nick did, sounding more than a little frantic, almost feverish. Renard might have considered hallucinations, but he knew better. Anyone would seem out of sorts, having something like that to reveal.

"How?" he asked again. "She died in your arms."

"I don't know!" A desperate cry. "All I know is what I heard." Nick bared his teeth. "If you're going to tell me I'm being overwhelmed by my grief, or some crap like that, just spit it out. I can't ..."

"No," Renard interrupted. "Give me some credit, will you? You're not prone to that kind of delusion."

The bubble of the Grimm's growing anger punctuated, Nick blinked at him, a little comically. "What kind of delusion am I prone to, then?" he asked, exasperated. " _Don't_ answer that," he amended after a moment.

"I wasn't going to." A brief hesitation. Normally he would have offered a drink; that seemed like a bad idea under the circumstances. "Though I will suggest you put down the axe."

Nick looked down at the weapon as if seeing it for the first time, then, almost sheepishly, leaned it against the wall. "You're not fazed by much, are you?" he said, sounding resentful.

"I can't afford to be," Renard replied honestly. Perhaps one day Nick would understand; he hoped not. He regarded Nick thoughtfully. Not that he didn't appreciate being kept in the loop, but ... "Why are you telling me all this?" 

Predictably, Nick glared at him. "Don't you want to know?"

Renard heroically suppressed an eyeroll. "That's not what I mean, and you know it."

Nick's eyes burned into his for a long moment; then he slumped. He put his face into his hands. "I don't know what to do," he said eventually, voice slightly muffled. "The axe was ..." A helpless shrug. "Storming the castle always works out so great."

Renard tilted his head to the side in thought. What, precisely, was Nick asking of him? "Who exactly were you thinking of going after?" Too many potential targets there.

"I," Nick barked violently, "don't know." He turned to the French doors again. Renard could see his face mirrored in the black of the glass. Their gaze met across it; then Nick's eyes flinched away.

Better that way, Renard told himself, and waited. He could be patient. 

Finally Nick turned around, then stilled, focusing on him entirely. There was something more tired and more certain than challenge in his eyes, but it was every bit as combative. "Would you have saved your father if you could?"

Ah. Renard suppressed a flinch. He thought for a long moment. "I don't know, actually," he admitted eventually. The look in Nick's eyes made him add, "I'm not you, Nick. I've done a great many things you never would."

"You shouldn't be so sure." Repressively.

He was, though. Nick might do any number of things in anger, might lash out in deadly fury, but the calculations of death were beyond him. It was almost endearing, in a Grimm.

They looked at each other. The rings under Nick's eyes had settled in for permanent residence days ago, but the slightly manic gleam in his eyes was new. 

He said nothing, though. It was Renard who had to say it out loud. "You want to save her." He was not entirely surprised. Juliette had been an enemy by the end, but not perhaps in her last moments, if Nick's no doubt biased observations were to be trusted. 

Nick looked away, eyes dropping to the floor. "I'm mad, aren't I." It wasn't a question.

"You want to save her," Renard repeated, "but you think you shouldn't."

"I can't do this again," Nick confessed, not lifting his head. "She'll ... I can't. But ..." He trailed off, but Renard could supply all the _buts_ going through his head easily enough on his own. _But I can't just leave her there. But I have to do something. But she's Juliette._

Renard wasn't certain whether to be gratified Nick had come to him with this, or annoyed he was once again being put in the middle of Nick's and Juliette's issues. Whatever Nick decided, this would not be pleasant. Perhaps it was best if he distanced himself further.

"Mm." He took a step back, deciding on his approach.

"What?" Nick snapped at him.

He shrugged. "Whoever they are, they may be the only institution capable and willing to hold a Hexenbiest. Outside of Royal dungeons, that is." A wry smile. "You do know there's no way for law enforcement to hold a Hexenbiest responsible for her deeds."

"I know," Nick snarled. 

"But you don't trust Chavez," Renard continued. "Of course you don't. I can make inquiries."

"No!" Nick leaned forward, teeth bared. "That's not ... well, that's part of it, but I wouldn't trust anyone with this." He grimaced. "They just took her. Faked her death somehow and took her. What's she even done that they could know about? My mother? Ha. As if."

Still worried about the correlation between crime and punishment. That was reassuring, almost. "True," Renard conceded. "Secret laws and secret law enforcement; not exactly confidence-inspiring. And that would be the best-case scenario."

Nick gave a jerky nod. "Even the Wesen Council's idea of enforcement doesn't work like that." He shook his head. "At least people know the rules there."

 _People,_ Renard thought irrelevantly. Not _Wesen_. Good, as far as it went. "Nonetheless, don't prejudge them too much."

"What, you think Chavez is the good guy here? Tell me another one."

"Not quite," Renard said. "Let me just say, an opposing faction is not necessarily an enemy."

A hard glare. "What's the difference? To you."

"Opponents may still have basic interests in common. Enemies don't." Renard shrugged. "One, you may ally with. The other? Never."

Nick looked away. "That's not helpful."

"What do you want to do, then?" Renard asked again.

Nick bared his teeth. "Don't you have any ideas?"

Renard sighed inwardly. "You know the options as well as I do." Nick had ruled out leaving Juliette where she was; that left only two things. Finishing what Trubel hadn't - or not.

Nick hunched his shoulders uncomfortably. "We don't have time to make that Hexenbiest suppressing potion, do we? Even if we could find a dead Hexenbiest."

Finding a buried Hexenbiest was not, in fact, the difficulty. Renard considered what to say. "You think you could make her take it, this time?"

Nick grimaced. "They've got her contained, somehow."

Blackmail was certainly an option. _Drink this, or we'll abandon you here._ Yes; an option for disaster. Had Nick still not realized the truth about that potion?

He'd been silent for too long. "Not the best way to avoid a fight, yeah," Nick said. "I just ..."

"What would you do if she refused?" Renard asked before he could change his mind. Overcoming his instinct to keep himself out of this particular disaster, he continued, "A potion of Catherine's, Adalind said, wasn't it?" At Nick's nod, "I seriously doubt Catherine would have done anything to herself that she couldn't reverse. Adalind, even less."

Nick stared. "Great," he said. "Something else to worry about." He seemed to shiver for a moment. "Not like Adalind didn't curse the two of you without her powers, either."

Renard nodded in approval. Nick had never been a fool. One more step; he hesitated before taking it, but if he was going to be repeatedly put in the middle of this, he might as well go all the way. "But you still think she'll be more the woman you knew, without those powers?"

Nick flinched and looked away. 

No; Juliette's powers had never been the problem. Her changes in brain chemistry, yes; the Hexenbiest spirit joined to her human soul, yes. Her obsession with Adalind, yes. The powers themselves, not at all.

Which didn't mean seeking a way to control her was a bad idea, necessarily. Better safe than sorry, after all. But Renard could see no easy option here.

"She knows you better than anyone, Nick," he added. "Do you really want to provoke her further?" He hesitated again. "And even if that worked - what then? Did you intend to make yourself her jailer instead? Because _that_ is bound to go well."

"Don't you think I know that!" Seething fury bubbling over, Nick whirled around, fist clenched, and punched the wall. 

Renard suppressed a snarl. Excellent; hadn't he just had to have the rug cleaned, after the whisky-soaked night they'd had? Now he could add drywall putty to his shopping list.

"You didn't help her last time," Nick accused, turning back and visibly reining himself in.

"Not enough," Renard agreed. Perhaps he could have made a difference; perhaps he couldn't; but the fact was that he hadn't tried all that well. He'd sent her to Henrietta, yes; he'd let her stay at his house, yes; but he'd also used her to open Adalind's book, and when things had started to get too complicated, he'd basically thrown her out.

He hadn't known how to help her. He'd had enough problems of his own. That was all true, but it wasn't much of a justification. She'd had no business putting him in the middle of her problems, much less her conflict with Nick - or worse, with Adalind - but nonetheless, he could have done better. He knew he should have.

It was far from the only regret he had, concerning these last months. If he'd turned to Henrietta earlier; if Jack the Ripper had been forced from his body earlier ...

_Three women dead at his hands, still alive, including Henrietta herself._

_Kenneth taken care of early. Kelly Burkhardt and his daughter safe. Even his father still alive._

_And Juliette ..._

Nick was still glaring at him when Renard finally said it. "You do want to try and help her, then."

Nick grimaced, looking guilty. "Everything she did ..."

"She lost herself almost completely," Renard agreed. "But I don't think it would have been impossible for her to find herself again." Whatever Juliette had made herself into, Renard couldn't believe the woman herself had vanished completely.

Abruptly, Nick's head snapped up. "You know, when all this started, Henrietta said ..." He chewed on his lower lip for a moment. "She said I should stand aside while she found herself. You think ..."

Renard suppressed a wince at the mention of Henrietta; then Nick's words penetrated. "You never mentioned that before," he said, almost accusingly, then pushed the thought aside. "We all played a part in where she ended up."

"You and me more than most," Nick added darkly. "We all failed her. And then it was too late."

"But it's not too late now." Juliette was still alive, and cliché though it was, perhaps that meant there was still some kind of hope.

 _You're slipping_ , Renard told himself. He usually dealt with betrayal better than that. More productively, at least. And Juliette certainly had betrayed him personally, joining with Kenneth as she had. Wishing for what was lost had never done anyone any good.

He watched as Nick's face twisted under the decision he had to make, and decided to drive the nail home. "If you can't trust her enough to release her into the world, then maybe you shouldn't."

Nick glared. "You think I should?"

The Grimm's eyes burned into him. He had to answer. And _It's your decision_ was not enough, not this time. Those eyes demanded an answer, and would not relent until he gave it.

"It's a risk," he said, knowing he was speaking too quickly, that he wasn't as calm as he should be. "But I don't think you could bring yourself to kill her. Or order her death," he added after a moment. "Not again."

From his drunken confession, Nick had told Trubel to kill Juliette, and then hadn't been able to do it himself, leaving the young woman to pull the trigger in Nick's defense. Of course that wasn't what had actually happened, but for a week, that false knowledge had weighed on him.

Nick couldn't meet his eyes. "We probably don't have much time," he said, speaking in the general direction of the kitchen range. "What if they move her?"

They hadn't for a week; they were probably not in any hurry. Still, the point was good. "I could make some quick inquiries, but it would risk tipping them off."

"Better not," Nick said, and his eyes finally met Renard's after all, bleak but determined. It was decided.

"The others?" Renard asked. Nick had come to him, not Monroe or Hank, but nonetheless ...

"No." Nick's tone brooked no argument. 

Renard considered. Additional assistance would probably not make a crucial difference, and if he went along with Nick's decision the responsibility would be largely on Nick. Too, he didn't think it would cost him any standing with the group; he was sufficiently on the outside that a failure to inform them would only be considered natural.

Which meant that while Nick's reasons might not be entirely rational, Renard didn't have sufficient motive to deny him. "Very well," he said. "Not tonight, though. Some preparations will have to be made."

Nick nodded jerkily, looking relieved. The dubious comfort of a decision made and accepted.

"Act normal," Renard advised, the wry twist of his mouth acknowledging the uselessness of the suggestion. Nothing about the past way too many weeks had been even remotely normal.


	5. Chapter 4

"Burkhardt."

Nick nodded at Holtby and Bauer as he walked into the precinct. They pushed past him and left, out for whatever investigation it was they were currently working on.

Everything still felt a little remote, not quite real. The people in the hallway, the _pling_ of the elevator, the background noise in the bullpen as he pushed through the doors - it all flowed together into a vaguely hazy backdrop to the whirring in his head. He hadn't been back here since ...

Since before Kelly, before Juliette, before Kenneth.

_Kenneth's blood on the ground ..._

Wu waved at him across the bullpen, and Nick suppressed a wince, returning the gesture on reflex. Wu had brought Kenneth to him. It wasn't until this moment, back at the precinct and surrounded by his colleagues, the everyday reality of a police department, that Nick fully realized what he'd asked of the sergeant, what he'd talked him into. Wu and Hank both.

Nick remembered the last time he'd come into the precinct knowing he'd killed someone, knowing an investigation was going on around the person he'd killed. He'd been a hair's breadth from turning himself in. And he hadn't even meant to kill anyone, then. 

_Your first premeditated murder,_ Renard's voice hissed at the back of his mind.

He turned toward the desk he shared with Hank. And there was accomplice number two. His partner was already at work, cup of coffee in hand and head turning towards the entrance and Nick.

Shrugging out of his jacket, Nick went over, sat down and turned on his computer. Hank watched him with attentive eyes. If he was worried about anything, it seemed to be only about Nick. Then again, it had been a week; clearly they'd gotten away with it.

Damn Renard to hell, anyway.

"Hey," Nick said, finally.

"Hey, Nick," Hank returned, drily. "Ready to get back in the saddle?"

"What's up?"

What was up was apparently some follow-up to a case Hank had worked on his own, last week. Research, paperwork, a number of phone calls. While Hank brought him up to speed, Nick scrolled through his emails and made a half-hearted attempt at sorting through them, weeding out the usual deluge of not-remotely-his-concern. Two half-written reports were in the red now, time-wise, and he'd have to finish them soon. But with a death in the family, even the bureaucracy knew mercy.

A day before he'd been looking forward to getting back to work, to having something to do. Now, work was a distraction that couldn't be over with soon enough.

Tonight.

 _Act normal_ , Renard had said.

Nick attacked the paperwork first, trying to look normal, not like someone nearly vibrating out of his skin, desperate to spring into action. The awareness of Renard in his office, somewhere behind his back, probably suffering from a similar anticipation, made him itch.

It reminded him of the way he'd felt those first few days and weeks after he'd found out the truth about Renard. Too much awareness; it scraped against his skin, hooked into his gut, pulled at him, threw him off course.

Hank gave him a concerned glance across their desks every now and then, but said nothing. If Nick acted strange, he'd likely attribute it to the fact that it was his first day back at work after the funeral.

He was lying to Hank again.

Nick clenched his fingers briefly, then resolutely set them on the keyboard again. He couldn't tell Hank, couldn't force him into the middle of this. It was bad enough what he'd already gotten him into. Whatever would happen tonight, best it be over with before anyone else had to find out.

 _Over with._ Such nice, simple words. He had no idea what _over with_ might look like. Would Juliette fight? Would she leave? Would she ...

He didn't dare put the third alternative into words, not even to himself. Juliette was contained now. Nick tried to imagine her, locked up, helpless and furious. Were they doing the right thing? Was there a right thing, here?

Juliette behind bars, not for the first time. The image stood before his eyes, looking at her in her cell. That _hadn't_ been containment for a Hexenbiest.

Why had she stayed there, anyway? She hadn't had to. A Hexenbiest could have broken out easily, and she'd been glorying in her powers, near manic with the pleasure of it. But she hadn't escaped. What had she waited for - what had she hoped for?

_I was just going to see if you would come rescue me._

Nick had left her there, convinced it was for the best.

What had she even done, then? She hadn't made him shoot Monroe yet, hadn't so much as spoken to Kenneth. Hadn't done a thing to his mother, hadn't, as far as he could tell, uttered more than threats to anyone. She might have attacked Adalind, but she hadn't known about the baby then. Adalind's pregnancy hadn't made a difference, but that, too, had been later. Her great crime, then, had been avoiding him, leaving him, refusing to try and fix things between them.

Nick winced internally. _At least I know where she is and I can keep talking to her,_ he'd told Hank. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

And assaulting some random unsuspecting guy in a bar, Nick reminded himself. That had been her, too. That had been why she'd been in that cell in the first place. It didn't help; it wasn't like he couldn't relate.

She'd liked her new powers. Well; he liked his. He'd wanted to be a Grimm again; she wasn't willing to give up being a Hexenbiest. Was that really so different?

But that had only been the start.

She was a Hexenbiest. He was a Grimm. It had been enough to rip them apart, and if Nick didn't understand what had happened to her after that, where she'd gone - any of the choices she'd made - that was no surprise. Hexenbiests were a force of nature.

He'd handled the ones he'd met, Catherine and Adalind, hadn't been terrified of either until it was too late. But they'd been enemies from the start.

Henrietta hadn't been, but she'd _controlled_ him, if only for a moment, if only for a demonstration, and Juliette was even more powerful than that.

 _His mother. Her severed head._ He couldn't forget it. He'd never forget it. What was he doing?

Some deep instinct told him to run, to turn away, to leave Juliette where she was. _Close your eyes and grieve and never look back._ But she was Juliette, and he couldn't, even now.

Still, perhaps they should have tried to make more of that potion after all.

The gnawing in his stomach wouldn't let up. Nick forced himself to think it to himself: Renard had been right. They couldn't force it on her without antagonizing her even more, and if there was any hope of tonight not ending in a battle, any hope for anything other than death and more death ...

He swallowed harshly, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment.

"Nick?" Hank asked quietly. "You okay, man?"

He shook his head, dismissing the question.

"Hey, if you need to go home I'm sure the captain will understand," Hank said, a strange uncomfortable twist to his mouth. His sympathy burned. "If it's too soon."

Nick forced his eyes open. "I'm fine," he pressed out. "I can do this."

Hank eyed him for another long moment, unaware of the double meaning, then shrugged and leaned back in his chair, giving Nick space.

"Burkhardt!" Renard's voice called out from behind him. The captain didn't shout, but his voice carried easily across the bullpen.

Hank's eyes snapped up. Nick turned, grateful for the distraction, and saw the door to the captain's office open, Renard looking out, eyebrows raised. Nick tilted his head in question as he rose from his seat. Renard gave him a quick _come here_ wave and turned away.

Every muscle and sinew in his body tense, Nick went in, closing the door behind him.

"What's up?" he asked, flippantly, trying to downplay his anxiety.

A corner of Renard's lips quirked up briefly. "Blueprints," he said succinctly. "I managed to pull them without raising any flags - the building's being converted, they're on file. We need to familiarize ourselves." He turned his laptop around, letting Nick see the screen.

For a nocturnal break-in, Renard had proved the right planning partner at least. The man, for all his straight-laced exterior, was good at secret work, legacy of a youth spent running from his family, an adult life spent juggling multiple incompatible alliances, trying to carve out a space for himself here in Portland. It wasn't something Nick should have been comfortable with, but right now, it was a relief.

"Can I have a printout?" Looking at it on his computer here would be too risky, out in the bullpen where everyone could walk behind him and see.

Renard leaned to his right to fish something from a desk drawer. Nick's eyes caught on the smooth stretch of his back. He had to blink a few times to catch up when Renard straightened and, wordlessly, held out a sheaf of papers.

Nick forced himself to stillness. The captain had never coddled him; he'd never refrained from throwing uncomfortable truths in Nick's face. _Murderer,_ Nick's memory whispered, and, _that is what you Grimms do, isn't it?_ But Nick had left a visible dent in Renard's wall yesterday, and the captain hadn't so much as mentioned it. Even that had been too close to their violent, drunken, confused connection the night of the funeral.

Renard didn't want to remember, and Nick understood perfectly. They had more important things to worry about, anyway.

"Thanks," he said, belatedly, rolling the papers his hands, forcing his thoughts back on topic. That was the last part that had been missing; they were as prepared as they were going to be.

Nick looked up at the captain. He should be leaving now; no need to linger. But something held him in place.

"If this goes wrong," he said after a moment, his throat closing on the last word.

Renard nodded. "Are you going to fight this time?" he asked brusquely. "Or will you just let her kill you?"

True to character. Not coddling him. Nick nearly let out a bitter laugh. He couldn't speak.

Renard leaned forward, hands braced on his desk, his green eyes cutting. "I mean to survive. If you don't, I suggest you go alone."

"No." The word exploded from Nick's chest, and it took his conscious mind a moment to gather itself, to explain. "It's a lot less likely to go wrong if I'm not alone," he finally managed. "She never ... I never ..." He swallowed. "Every time, it went more wrong. We never managed to talk without fighting after she told me the truth, not once. Not once." He squeezed his eyes shut. "You did." And that still hurt, but he'd use it now. He'd use anything if it might help.

Renard was silent for a long moment. "That didn't last long either," he finally confessed. "We didn't fight so much as ..." A shrug. "But you're right." And then, "What if it doesn't go wrong?"

Nick's skin felt too tight for his body. "If she ..." He let out a strangled breath. "Adalind's at my house."

A brief, jerky nod; then the captain's eyes wandered into the distance, thinking. "If she cooperates," he said slowly, visibly making the decision as he spoke, "she's welcome at my place."

Nick started. "Are you sure? It's a lot to ask for."

"You didn't ask. And I've had Adalind with me, before. I doubt this could be worse."

 _Don't jinx it._ But it was the truth; Renard wasn't exactly a stranger to housemates of dubious loyalty. If he said he could handle it, Nick was willing to believe him.

And trust he wouldn't make the same mistakes again.

Nick gave a relieved nod. "Tonight, then."

And Renard nodded back at him. "Tonight."

~*~

Nick didn't ask where Renard had organized the car. It was black, nondescript, and not tied to either of them; that was all he cared about. Renard was driving, and Nick's phone lay on the dashboard between them under the back-and-forth of the windscreen wipers, speakers on.

Trubel had gone to Chavez's place again. Nick would have preferred her out of the way for this, but they didn't have time. He gritted his teeth. They were doing this tonight, one way or another.

From the speakers, he heard Trubel's low-voiced conversation with one of Chavez's people, casual talk, barely audible through the drum of the rain; then it went quiet.

Nick cranked up the volume as far as it would go, glad for something for his fingers to do. He tried not to think about anything but taking the next step, and the one after that, and then the next one again. He tried not to think about the object of their nocturnal excursion, tried not to think about Juliette at all.

He was failing.

Background noises from the speakers; then a scratchy, "Come to gloat again?" And because he was looking in that direction anyway, Nick could see Renard flinch at hearing Juliette's voice.

"Just want to see if you're still pretending." Trubel sounded defiant; Nick could imagine the stance that went with the words. Her tough-Grimm look. She'd done a great impression of it when she'd killed ... no, when she'd pretended to kill Juliette.

Renard's eyes were focused on the road, but even in the dark, with only the lights from the dashboard and the streetlights filtered through the rain for illumination, Nick could see a muscle jump in his cheek.

"Still deluding yourself, you traitorous little viper," Juliette's tinny voice snarled, vicious and ugly. "Are you feeling good about yourself, shooting the big bad Wesen? That's all you can see, isn't it."

"That's all that's there."

"Of course," Juliette mocked. "I'm Wesen now, and I'm just _bad_. How very Grimm of you."

"They're not all bad!" Even through the scratchy tinnyness of the speakers, Trubel's voice sounded strangled. "Not all of them. But you are."

Silence; finally, "To think I took you into my house. We should have kicked you right back into the street where we found you."

Another pause; then Trubel's voice came again. "And that's how I know you're not Juliette. Thanks for the proof. Again."

Something shrieked in the background - was that Juliette? Then some distant noises, unidentifiable; finally, the speakers went quiet.

"She's wrong, of course," Renard said after a moment, voice tightly controlled. "But it's an understandable mistake, I suppose. She's still very young."

Nick said nothing, listening to the drumming of the rain and the hum of the windscreen wipers, back and forth, back and forth.

How one of the kindest and most generous people he'd ever known had turned so cruel ... he didn't want to contemplate it. Most of all, he didn't want to wonder if that potential, that capacity for viciousness and hatred, had always been in her. If he'd been the one who'd brought it out in her, because he'd wanted to be a Grimm too much, because he hadn't left it all behind to have a normal life with her somewhere far from this.

"Not that I haven't wondered how much of her is still Juliette." The words came out of Nick's mouth, unbidden, and he turned his head, not wanting to see Renard's expression.

"All of it, I expect," Renard said, sounding very far away under the rain. "She's changed, not become someone else."

A distinction without a difference. "Yeah," Nick said, and they fell quiet again.

"Whether she's entirely responsible for her actions is a different question."

A bitter huff. "Temporary insanity?"

"Or not so temporary," Renard admitted. "That remains to be seen."

Turning off the headlights, Renard slipped the car off the main road, around a corner, another, and into what must once have been a loading area. The building had been a retail center; now, a construction sign announced its upcoming conversion into office space. The ground-level parts of the complex had already been gutted.

Since it wasn't fenced off and a good part of the surrounding blocks had restaurants and clubs, people had co-opted the open space for street parking. One more car wouldn't stand out.

Renard turned the car, making sure to park without any obstacles between them and the street in case they'd need a quick exit, and killed the engine.

In the rainy darkness, the building was almost indistinct; vague signs of light penetrated from somewhere on the upper floor. That made their job easier.

"Time to go, I suppose," Nick said, craning his neck to get a better look at which parts of the building were lit, and how they lined up with the memorized blueprints.

Renard threw him a sideways glance, then crossed his arms in front of his chest. "One more thing," he said.

Nick's eyebrows went up. "Yes?"

Worryingly, Renard hesitated for a moment. Then, "You should know I slept with her."

Nick flinched, then swallowed around the sudden lump of conflicting feelings rising from his gut. He'd wondered, at one point. He'd been jealous already - Juliette had turned to Renard, after all, had told _him_ the truth when she'd been hiding from Nick. And there had always been a palpable tension between them, even after they'd broken Adalind's curse and cured their mutual obsession. By the end, all of that had become irrelevant, but to have it confirmed now ... Nick wasn't sure what he was feeling.

"Why are you telling me that?" he asked tightly. The car suddenly felt very small, and his skin was prickling. "Now, of all times."

Renard hadn't mentioned any of what had happened on Friday. But bringing _this_ up now, inevitably, snapped Nick's mind back to that night. He swallowed heavily, unable to shake the sudden awareness of Renard's body next to his.

Finally, Renard deigned to answer his question. "She's trapped, and she'll no doubt resent our help. If she lashes out ..." He shrugged; an eloquent gesture.

"Verbally," Nick amended, then pressed his lips together, considering. Renard wasn't wrong. "Forewarned is forearmed," he muttered.

"Precisely." Renard made a gesture toward the building, then turned to him in question.

Nick nodded, forced all other thought aside. Time to go.

~*~

They stood under the roof of the gutted ground level until the rain stopped dripping from their bodies and they could move without leaving behind a watery trail. Renard, all in black, out of his ubiquitous suits for once, looked dangerous and capable.

Nick led the way to the maintenance shaft at the back. They encountered no sign of life, nor electronic surveillance, on the way.

Renard moved closer to him as he pried open the hatch, snorting quietly. "One thing I can tell you for sure," he said, sounding half incredulous, half amused. "Chavez's questions about Royals aside, these people aren't with the Resistance. They seem to assume they are safely under the radar. There's no such thing."

Nick ducked into the shaft and climbed up the ladder to make room for Renard, switching on his flashlight after Renard had closed the hatch behind him. Cables and pipes ran next to him.

One floor up, he stopped. Moment of truth. He switched off his flashlight, waited a moment for his eyes to adjust, and reached for the internal latch, slowly pushing it open. A tiny sliver of light fell in.

Speed was key, now. If someone was standing guard outside, he had to incapacitate them before they could react.

The startled man didn't even have the chance to pull his gun. He hadn't been alert - Renard had been right; these people expected no intruders.

Their mistake.

Nick stared down at the unconscious man and pulled a roll of duct tape from inside his jacket, securing him and, more importantly, taping his mouth to prevent him from raising the alarm. Maybe he could just have burst in here, knocked them all out and demanded answers from Chavez, after all.

Too late for that now.

Renard joined him as he was finishing, and they made their way deeper into the building.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Juliette held herself stiff, her body almost shaking with power held tightly in check. When the door closed behind Trubel, she let out a shuddering breath. Her power released in a violent wave, only to slam futilely into the barrier holding her, dissolving into nothing.

_They're not all bad! Not all of them._

Blood rushed in her ears. Why had those words hit her as they had? Yes, her own words, from long ago; she remembered telling just that to Trubel, a few months and a lifetime ago. Worse, she hadn't understood at all what she was saying.

What did it matter, now? That woman was gone. _One thing you got right, little Grimm bitch._

She wanted to break something, shatter something, but she couldn't. Trubel had taken that away from her. Like that potion Nick had tried to force on her, gun to her face.

What had he thought she would do? Swallow down her medicine like a good little girl, become his sidekick again?

She still had her power now, but it was just as useless.

Juliette paced the confines of her prison like a panther, back and forth along the bars, again and again, trying to wear off some of the furious tension that had nowhere to go.

Eventually she forced herself to sit down on her cot. Punching the barrier was as futile as unleashing her power at it; she couldn't even _touch_ the metal cage that formed its shape. A moment later she startled up again when the door opened - too soon.

She nearly gasped in shock when she saw who was entering.

Nick.

For a moment she was too stunned to even feel anything. _Nick_ was working with her captors.

He looked at her from the doorway with hooded eyes, almost through his eyelashes, as if he couldn't quite look her in the face. Of course he couldn't.

Nick and Trubel both, then. Was that how it was? _Grimms._ She should have known; that nightmare had been nothing if not prophetic. She should have killed them when she'd had the chance.

Juliette hissed and felt her woge come over her, welling up from her chest and turning her skin inside out. She didn't scream only because she knew it would be futile, that her power would once again shatter and diffuse against the boundaries of her prison like so much air.

"You," she spat.

Nick looked at her with those terrible, dark, inhuman eyes - Grimm eyes that made her see what she didn't want to see, that forced her to face herself. His body was held stiff, and everything about him screamed discomfort and hostility.

She'd managed to face _that_ , well enough. He hadn't been able to face her. She snarled.

"Hello, Juliette," he said, then grimaced as if something he hadn't meant had come out of his mouth.

"Like me behind bars, do you?" she sneered. "Does it make you feel in control?"

Behind him, the half-open door was pushed a little wider, and another person came in. Juliette couldn't suppress her gasp.

 _Sean?_ Sean, too?

He closed the door behind him, then met Juliette's eyes. But he said nothing, didn't even react to finding her woged.

Something inside her was turning in circles in disbelief, in stunned betrayal. Why? He'd always been about Nick, his precious Grimm, hadn't he? He'd kicked her out when she'd broken up with Nick. 

Kenneth had been his enemy. Should she be surprised he'd seek revenge? Her stomach clenched, and her woge melted away.

Sean went up to her cage and tapped a finger against the space between the bars. The barrier reacted.

"Zauberbiest," Juliette snapped.

His mouth twisted. "Not a Hexenbiest, though." And then his finger slowly pressed forward, pushing through the barrier. Juliette gaped, then lunged; he pulled back before she could reach. "I wonder who died for this?"

"Died?" she asked, stupidly. 

Sean shrugged. "If containing Hexenbiests came cheap, everyone would try it."

Nick didn't react at all to the exchange, merely looked at her through the bars, eyes dark and shadowed, just like before. He'd tried to pin her in place, hold her down, stop her from moving on, from becoming. He'd kept her in prison, thinking it safe, never understanding that she'd let him, waiting to see what he'd do.

He'd damned himself, she told herself. If part of her had hoped for a different ending, that part was dead. He'd snuffed it out in her one damning choice at a time. He'd deserved -

She swallowed. _Kenneth, coming in from outside, Kelly's blood splattered over his clothes, his face._

Nick might have deserved what she threw at him. But had Kelly?

No. No. She couldn't think about that; it made no difference. Kelly was a Grimm; she'd have killed her as soon as looked at her. She wasn't Nick's sweet Kehrseite girlfriend any more.

The girl, though. The little Hexenbiest girl. Adalind's blood.

But a girl. Just a little girl, only a year old even if she didn't look it. _Where's my mommy?_

Juliette shivered, reining in the scream that would only have slammed, ineffectually, against the barrier, breaking nothing.

"What do you want?" she snapped.

Nick threw a sideways glance at Sean, who was taking a bundle out of his jacket, crouching down next to the cage. Nick stood above him, body tense. His eyes flickered to her neck, and she suppressed the reflex to touch the gauze bandage covering the place where she'd been shot. "Call it a jailbreak," he said.

Her mind stalled.

Sean looked up briefly. "If this were a jail," he commented drily, "and not a highly illegal detention cell belonging to a highly illegal organization that doesn't officially exist."

One corner of Nick's mouth twitched up briefly. After a moment, again. The third time, it stayed up. Juliette had never seen him smile so unwillingly before.

 _What have you done, Sean, that_ you _can make him smile even now?_

 _What have_ I _done?_ , a treacherous part of her mind added. She shoved it aside, ruthlessly. Nick had flinched from her long before she'd done anything at all.

Then Nick's words finally caught up with her.

"You're not ... with them?" she asked, stupidly.

Nick flinched as if she'd struck him - no, worse; as if she'd touched him while woged. "No," he said, repressively. Then, "I thought you were dead." A quick look to Sean, who was busily assembling something on the ground. "We thought you were dead. There was a funeral."

She tried to digest that, and failed.

"We're not certain what Chavez's agenda is," Sean added, "but I'm sure you'll agree that we shouldn't wait to find out."

Juliette blinked. "I don't know what she wants," she said slowly. "But she thinks your family made me."

Sean's head came up. "Why is she being so inexcusably sloppy, then?" Nick made a protesting sound, and Sean turned to him. "I meant what I said." Then he went back to whatever it was he was doing.

Jailbreak. Juliette's mind was still caught on that word. She knew what had to come next. Taking a deep breath, she waited for one of them to pull out that potion, to try and force it down her throat.

"Well?" she said after a while, impatiently.

Sean stood. "Stand back, Juliette," he said.

"Why?" Refusing had become second nature. Belatedly she realized what must be going on. "You can break this barrier?"

He offered her a wry smile. "I had to break my mother out of similar confinement once. You can bet I was prepared for something like this afterwards."

She looked between Sean and Nick again, then took a step back, and another, almost on autopilot, toward the center of her cell.

None of this made any sense.

Sean pulled out a lighter and set fire to something he'd put up against the invisible barrier; it went up in flames within an instant, and then a sharp hiss of flaming-hot air swept along the walls and over the boundaries of her prison, burning them away.

Juliette broke the lock on the cage with a simple flick of her wrist, stepping outside as quick as she could, even as Sean stood up and dusted himself off.

Free.

And free to do what she should have, before. Nick slammed into the wall, propelled by her power, and she held him in place. "I suppose this is where it ends," she said tiredly.

She could take them both, she thought darkly. And if not, if Sean was faster, if he shot her before she could kill him too, well. It would be over. Finally over. It was so simple.

"Is that what you want?" Sean asked, from behind her. She turned her head. He hadn't pulled his gun, was just standing there, looking at her.

They'd come for her.

They'd come for her, together.

Her telekinetic grip fell, her hand sinking to her side, and she looked between them, lost.

Nick pushed himself away from the wall, rolled his shoulders and stalked past her, turning to open the door. Saying nothing. Sean threw her another penetrating look, then followed.

Half dazed, she trailed after them, past a woman lying slumped, bound and gagged next to the door, around a corner and down a long corridor. Nick and Sean moved with purpose ahead of her.

What was she doing, going with them? She was free; she could go anywhere, do anything. Rip her captors to shreds if she wanted. Tear Trubel apart, the traitorous little bitch. Instead, she was blindly following them.

Then the truth of it finally hit her, looking at Nick moving ahead of her. He'd come. This time, he'd come, and he'd broken her out. They both had. She could have killed them, but they still had.

Juliette stumbled, and had to force herself to keep moving under the sudden weight of it.

They came to what looked like a maintenance closet but turned out to be a shaft, full of the electrical and plumbing innards of the building. Another incapacitated person lay bound next to it, unconscious. Sean went in first; then Nick, throwing her one last dark look before he stepped on the ladder.

Suddenly there was the sound of boots running in the distance, and a voice calling out something indistinct. The breakout had been discovered.

Juliette clenched her teeth, turning back. They wouldn't get her again.

Trubel skidded around the corner, coming to a halt in plain sight of them both - Juliette, by the hatch, and Nick inside it. Sean of course was already on the way down. Trubel's mouth fell open. Her eyes were wide and frightened and suddenly very young.

Then everything happened at once. Juliette lifted her hand to use her telekinesis; Nick reached out to stop her; and Trubel threw her head around and called behind her, "Nothing here."

Stunned - too stunned to release her magic, just for a breath's length - Juliette lowered her hand and let Nick pull her in, following him down as fast as she could.

The downstairs was open to the weather, only the load-bearing sections still standing. Piles of construction materials stood around; major rebuilding in progress. Outside it was dark, and raining. Juliette stopped. What was she doing?

Sean turned to her, just before he'd have stepped out into the rain. He still got sprayed with water, but most of it missed him. "We don't have time," he said, impatiently.

A few steps ahead in the full torrent of the rain, Nick turned back to her as well, water plastering his hair to his head within moments. He wiped some drops from his eyes.

"Are you coming with us or not?" he asked. Then he turned around and, infuriatingly, started walking away while she glared at his back. Sean threw her an unreadable look, then followed, the rain immediately soaking his hair.

Juliette stared after them both, furious and lost. After a moment, grudgingly, she went.

~*~

"What now?" Juliette asked eventually, uncomfortable in her wet clothes in the back seat of the car. Sean was driving.

Nick half turned, throwing her a look over his shoulder; then his eyes were on the windscreen again. The rain was drumming on the roof of the car, and water was running down the windows like a liquid sheet, rippled by individual drops hitting and adding to the flow. Only the windscreen, under the steady work of the wipers, was not like looking through water.

"Come with me," Sean said from the driver's seat when he stopped at a red light. He shifted around, awkwardly in the narrow space, his eyes pinning her. "You can't be seen, or Chavez will be on to you again."

"What?" She sounded incredulous even to herself. "What if they saw you?"

"Yeah, well," Nick snapped, and stopped. He still wouldn't look at her. Had they even had a proper plan?

Juliette sneered at the back of his seat, then threw a glare at Sean, who was still turned towards her. He gave her an ironic smile and untwisted himself, resuming his seat. The car began to move again.

"I'm not taking that potion," Juliette said suddenly. They'd come for her, fine, but she wasn't going to let anyone take her powers from her. Not even - or rather, _especially not_ \- either of them. If they thought -

"No," Sean agreed, easily. "You may need the defense, if worst comes to worst."

Nick's hand was clenched tightly around the side of his seat, knuckles prominent in the water-washed yellow streetlight. But he said nothing.

Had they argued about this - about her?

Juliette was tired. She didn't have the capacity to deal with this just now. Her hand went on the door opener. She wondered if the child safety lock was on.

Perhaps it was best if she just walked out of here. If she didn't fight, would they try to stop her? She could leave them both behind. Go someplace far from here, out of either of their reach, out of Chavez's reach, and simply leave all this behind.

But they'd come for her. Together. It was too late; it wasn't enough, would never be enough, and yet ...

She let her hand fall back into her lap. And stayed.


	6. Chapter 5

When Renard unlocked the door, Juliette pushed past him and stalked inside. But a few steps into the house she stopped, looking around herself almost uncertainly.

Renard came to stand next to her in the corridor. "You know where everything is," he said blandly.

So far, the evening had gone better than he'd anticipated. The breakout itself had gone almost without a hitch. Juliette had not attempted to kill either Nick or him, and neither had she left. She'd said nothing for most of the drive, had gone along without comment when Renard had dropped off the car, when Nick had left, throwing back a last dark and uncomfortable look. And unless Trubel talked, Chavez was still none the wiser about who had effected Juliette's escape. The true difficulty came now.

"Are you going to give me a key again?" she asked, the tight fake-sweetness of her voice grating.

"If you want," Renard said, noncommittally.

Juliette bristled. "Oh, but you invited me, didn't you, Sean?" She stepped closer, into his space, hand brushing against the front of his shirt. "What are you expecting ... this time?"

He kept his breathing even, not allowing himself to react. The last time, she'd pushed herself into his life, putting him uncomfortably in the middle of her imminent break-up with Nick, and he'd allowed her to stay grudgingly, demanding her help in return - and even that, only for a short while. Granted, he'd been juggling too many problems already. He discarded the excuse; it would do him no good. At any rate, this time, he'd offered freely. He understood the difference; she clearly didn't.

Renard hesitated. But he'd already made his decision. His hand closed around her wrist, pulling it away from his chest. "I didn't help you very well, last time," he said quietly, head bowed towards her. "You wanted your life back. I didn't do much."

"My life!" Juliette ripped her arm out of his grip. "You're right, you were a failure. Like everyone - like all of you. But I don't blame you." Her eyes were bright, glittering, and then she woged into a Hexenbiest sneer. "It all worked out for the best, didn't it?"

"Did it?" he asked, point-blank. "You don't want now what you wanted then; very well. But did you want what you got?"

A long, hard stare. Then she shook her head in something that was more shiver than denial, and her woge fell away. "What I've got is power," she declared, lifting her arm. Her telekinesis struck out at him, knocking him into the wall.

Déjà vu. Last time it had been Nick, lashing out in a very similar manner. Renard was no more inclined to give ground here. What was it with everyone and throwing him into walls? he thought, irritated. But returning the favor would do no good here; Juliette was too volatile, and perhaps too fragile.

She stalked closer. Her telekinetic hold let up just as her palms settled on his shoulders, and she leaned her entire, not exactly considerable, weight into him.

"I could kill you," she hissed, face close to his, her breath against him. The corner of her mouth curled into a dark, pleasureless smile. "Or just hurt you ... so easily." Her fingers curled into his shirt, and her pupils were dilating.

He wasn't going to go down this road again. "Does that comfort you?" he asked, and when she bared her teeth at him, he added, "You had a gun, remember? You could have done that any day." Someone else had.

Juliette's eyes went wide, searching his face for a moment, then flickering over his chest. She snatched her hands back as if burnt.

"This is better," she insisted. "This is what I want." But she sounded less confident, not as certain it was enough.

"If you say so." He nodded at her briskly, stepping away from the wall. "When you do figure out where you want to go from here, what you want to do - let me know. I will help you this time. You have my word." And he turned away, walking up to the sideboard to pour himself a drink. Not because he wanted one, but simply for something to busy his hands with.

From behind him, Juliette's voice came, tight and angry. "What if it's killing Adalind?"

Renard didn't turn. "You don't need help for that." He could only hope he hadn't misjudged the situation. But for all that Juliette had tried to kill Adalind several times, for all that she'd by all reports become entirely obsessed with vengeance against her, he couldn't help thinking that if she'd truly put her all into it, she wouldn't have failed.

"Where is Adalind now?" Juliette asked, coming closer, demanding. "She's with Nick, isn't she? Cozy expectant parents and all."

He looked at her face, contorted in anger, and lifted his glass at her in question. "Drink?"

Her mouth opened, then fell shut again. After a moment, "Don't bother. I want that bitch dead! Are you protecting her now, too?"

"She's very pregnant," Renard said, stalling.

"What, I wait until she's given birth, and then you won't mind?"

Slowly, deliberately, Renard walked over to the couch and sat down, crossing his legs. He set down his glass on the table. "There's the door," he said, jerking his chin in that direction. "I couldn't stop you now; we both know that." He thought he was beginning to see something, here. She'd wanted Nick to vindicate her in her quest for vengeance, hadn't she? He decided to take the risk. "What is it you want from Nick, exactly?"

"Nothing!" The shouted protest fell entirely flat, and Juliette knew it. Her hands clenched tightly around each other. "She raped him," she said harshly. "And now he's protecting her."

Renard merely nodded. "And have you thought about what that costs him?"

Juliette stared at him as if the thought had never occurred to her. Abruptly she let herself fall into an armchair, hands wringing in her lap. "Why are you doing this?" she asked. "Didn't I replace you fast enough, last time? I slept with Kenneth, too, you know."

Nick had mentioned that. Unpleasant though it was, he wasn't inclined to allow it to bother him. After all, what had happened between him and Juliette had been ill-advised at best. "Was he any good?" he asked drily.

She blinked. "I ... have no idea," she said slowly, a shiver going over her. "I barely remember." She looked down at her hands. "Why am I here?"

Only Juliette could answer that. "I don't know," he said honestly. "Why are you?"

"I don't know," she echoed, seemingly just as truthfully. The corner of her mouth turned down. "Why would you let me? Kenneth was your enemy."

"And you gave my daughter to my family." That was far worse, in his book. He was an adult, and could deal with whatever betrayal he was handed. Diana was not.

All he had of Diana was her face as a tiny, new-born baby. He hadn't set eyes on her since, hadn't even had word until Nick had seen her briefly, being taken away by his father. She was a year old, now, looking much older. With Kelly, who'd protected her, dead, with his father, who'd taken her, gone, he no longer even knew whether she was alive, let alone what might be happening to her. 

Juliette huffed. "He didn't seem that bad. And you turned out all right, didn't you?"

Defensiveness, or genuine incomprehension? Never mind.

"Why would I let you?" Renard repeated her question. It probably wouldn't be kind to tell her he'd taken in worse traitors than her: Adalind, for one. But then, kindness had never been his strong suit. "Adalind betrayed me to my brother," he said calmly. "I helped her escape from Vienna anyway."

Juliette was up from her seat and leaning over the table in an instant, snarling at him, teeth bared. Furious power radiated from her, and behind her, opposite him, the glass in a picture frame on the wall cracked audibly. The comparison had hit a sore spot, as he'd known it would. _Good._ He gave her his best unimpressed expression.

After a moment she pulled back, but didn't sit again. "Because she was pregnant," Juliette spat, perhaps contemplating the parallel between his situation then and Nick's situation now.

That had only been a little more than a year ago, though it felt much longer. He'd mishandled Adalind badly, both before and after that. He couldn't afford to make those mistakes again. And it wouldn't do to push Juliette too hard now.

"You know Kenneth played you," he offered, the change of subject a small conciliatory gesture.

She looked at him hard for a moment longer; then, abruptly, she turned away. "I felt powerful with him," she said bitterly. "In control."

"But you were just a pawn." Kenneth had been good at what he did, and she'd been easy prey. She clearly knew it now. "That should tell you something about what my family is really like, from the inside."

Her lips pulled back from her teeth. "I should have ripped him to shreds."

"Mm."

Juliette turned back to him at the noncommittal sound, raising her eyebrow. He offered her a darkly satisfied look. "Nick did that for both of us."

She flinched. Behind her, a splinter fell from the broken picture glass. The loss of that piece destabilized the rest, and more pieces fell, shattering further on the ground.

Vandals, both of them, Renard thought irrelevantly. Nick and Juliette both could use an anger management class. Alas, neither of them was likely to be open to the suggestion.

"I imagine he understands your vendetta much better now, having done that."

If Juliette's choices had been nothing like what Nick would have expected of her, Nick's own foray into vengeance-fuelled murder certainly wasn't what anyone would have expected of Nick. Lately he'd been more the Grimm than ever before - and not Portland's friendly neighborhood Grimm, but something older and darker, out of a Wesen nightmare.

That was an uncomfortable thought. Renard dreaded the day Nick truly went off the rails. He could handle such men, but he didn't relish the prospect of having to _handle_ Nick. Whether Juliette's reappearance would deter him from that path, or merely send him spiraling further along, that remained to be seen. Judging by the previous two days, Renard allowed himself to be cautiously hopeful.

Juliette clearly wanted to say something, but it took a while until she settled on, "At least _he_ got his revenge."

Renard contemplated Nick's furious confused despair. "It doesn't seem to have helped much."

She grimaced, but seemed to have no further comment. Finally she gestured toward the stairs. "I'll just ..."

He nodded in acknowledgment.

At the foot of the stairs, she stopped. "How did you even find out?" she asked. "If you thought I was dead."

"Trubel," he said simply. "I gather she acted suspiciously, and Nick tracked her."

"Did he?" Low and poisonous. "Not so trusting any more, is he."

"No. He isn't." For better or worse.

She grimaced. "Does everyone know, then?"

Renard allowed himself a moment to consider, then settled on the truth. "Just Nick and me, for now."

"He confided in you, of all people?" Juliette's face was all sneer. He would not allow it to affect him.

"He's not the first," he merely said.

"Well," she said, teeth clenched, "I hope he doesn't get burned."

Renard didn't bother offering her assurances on that subject, and when he didn't rise to her bait, some of the anger seemed to drain out of her. For a long moment she simply stood there at the foot of the stairs, almost awkwardly, and the space between them was very large.

"Did you ever figure out what was going on, with those bleeding episodes of yours?" she asked eventually, diffidently.

Was that an overture? If so, it was a clumsy one, but Renard was willing to take it.

"Yes, actually," he said. "Turns out when my mother brought me back from the dead, I brought something with me. An ... entity, you could say." His mouth twisted into a wry grimace. "Jack the Ripper, to be precise."

"Jack the ..." She ducked her head in a small, helpless laugh, looking for a moment very much like the woman she'd once been. "You're not kidding."

Renard merely shook his head. "He ended up gaining control of me, before we managed to oust him." The confusion and terror of that period still sent shivers over his skin, and he did his best to suppress the memory. He hesitated. "Henrietta is dead," he confessed.

He'd known her since he was a boy. They hadn't been close, exactly - it had always been safer for both of them to retain a certain plausible deniability about the other - but she had been a constant in his life for many years. And she was dead by his hand, even if against his will.

"What?" Juliette gaped at him, then shook her head, looking almost lost. Eventually she asked, "But it's over now?"

"Yes," Renard said, not hiding his very genuine relief. "It's over now."

Juliette gave him a strange look, eyes distant as if she was seeing something far away. "And here I thought Nick was the one who got all the weird."

If only. "I think we've all had more than our share."

~*~

Renard contemplated the untouched glass of whisky on the couch table. He picked it up, held it in his hand. But he had no desire to take a sip, the pleasure of the complex flavors no temptation at all. It would likely be some time before the taste ceased to bring back memories of a night drenched in whisky, violence, sex, and confessions, an uncomfortable and damning loss of control.

Upstairs, the shower in the guest bathroom started. Renard sighed, put the glass down again, and pulled out his phone.

The connection was picked up almost immediately. "How did it go?" Nick asked urgently, "Is she still there?" Then, reluctantly, "Are you all right?"

Grudging concern; how touching. "It went well enough," Renard said. "We talked."

"And she didn't attack you?" Nick sounded incredulous. A bitter huff. "Kudos to you, I suppose."

"Nick. Have you considered your next steps?"

There was a long silence. Renard waited him out. Then, almost under his breath, Nick said, "I'm not sure I thought we'd get this far."

Yes; that had been obvious. It fell to him, then, to pull Nick back to the practicalities. "Your wayward protégée covered your escape."

"Yeah." Nick sighed. "That's next, isn't it? Trubel. _If_ she comes back at all, after that."

True. Renard nodded to himself; the young woman must know she'd be walking into a confrontation. "Let me know if she makes an appearance," he said. "I have several questions."

"You and me both." Another pause; then, "Sorry for putting you in the middle of this."

That sounded almost genuine. "It's not a problem," he said. But of course that was a lie.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Juliette came out of the shower wrapped in a towel. The bandage on her neck had come off easily, and the puncture wounds were neatly scabbed over, not bleeding again under the water. She'd kicked her clothes into a corner, glad to be out of them. _Laundry,_ she thought. She'd have to take care of that tomorrow. What a bizarrely mundane thing to be thinking, now.

She stood for a long moment staring at the walls, the wardrobe, the bed. She was back here, in this room, in Sean's house. Months ago she'd run here for safety, and then stormed _from_ here in fury and rage. Now, she was simply tired.

She hadn't had to pull the curtains closed before she'd turned on the lights when she'd come in; they'd already been drawn. Sean thought of things like that. A childhood on the run; had she ever actually thought about what that meant?

She was on the run now, too. Would Chavez come looking for her here? Would she attack Sean and Nick to get to her? Did Juliette care whether she did?

Sean had compared her to Adalind, just now. _Adalind!_ She should have snapped his neck for it. But she hadn't. She hadn't killed Nick, either. She'd wanted to, hadn't she?

Her stomach clenched. _Kenneth, spattered in blood, lifting Kelly's head into the air. Kenneth in the car, calmly ordering Nick's death._

Juliette sat down on the bed, drew her legs up and wrapped her arms around them. What did she want? She no longer knew.

Sean's offer echoed and burned in her mind. Why would he make that kind of promise to her, after everything? She'd had to talk him into letting her stay, before. Now, after everything, he would simply offer? None of it made sense, and least of all the fact that she'd stayed. She could be across town now, Adalind's broken body on the ground before her. Instead, she was here in this room, back in a place she'd never expected to see again.

Juliette looked down at the towel wrapped around her torso, at her bare legs. She'd left things behind here, hadn't she? When she'd left, she hadn't been thinking about gathering all her belongings. If Sean hadn't thrown it all out ...

Impulsively she jumped up and went to pull open the wardrobe, any distraction from the questions she didn't know how to answer.

There were her clothes, indeed. More than she could have left here - more than she'd _had_ here, she was sure. It took her a moment to understand. Sean had prepared this for her. Sean ... and Nick. It had to have been Nick, bringing over some of her things she'd left at the house.

Unforgivably, her throat closed up, and something welled up from her chest.

Biting her lips, Juliette pulled out the sleeve of a checkered pajama top. She'd loved that one, comfortable and familiar; now it seemed like something from a past life, one she could never fit into again.

But when she took the top off its hanger and slipped it on, it still fit perfectly.

Uncomfortably, she took it off again and put it away, firmly closing the wardrobe when she was done. She slipped under the sheets naked instead.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Trubel felt her steps slow as she approached Nick's house. She was being a coward. Nick knew. Nick _knew_ , and she'd have to face him.

It had taken her some fast-talking to make herself seem innocent last night; it had taken more to get Chavez to let her go back to Nick's. But here she was now. She knew when Nick usually went to work; he'd still be here. Best to get it over with.

Shoulders drawn in, face scrunched up, she forced herself towards the door, step by step, like a dog with its tail between its legs. She'd gone home to a few places like that, knowing what she was facing. Knowing what was waiting for her.

It wasn't going to be like that, though. Was it? Nick wasn't anything like that, was he?

She'd had a good thing, here. The best. For the first time in her life, she'd _fit_. And then she'd had to leave; she'd got in over her head with Chavez; and Juliette had been replaced by a Hexenbiest.

And _then_ she'd kept the worst of it from Nick. She'd told herself she was doing the right thing - maybe she had; she didn't know any more - but she'd always known he wouldn't forgive her. Not if she didn't tell him. Not if he found out. How could he?

She swallowed harshly.

The house was quiet when she let herself in. Maybe no one was home; maybe she wouldn't have to do this now after all.

"There you are."

Trubel nearly jumped out of her skin. Nick was standing right in front of her, and she hadn't heard him approach at all. Silent and creepy, even for a Grimm. His eyes were dark; his face was tight and drawn, and she had to suppress a shiver. _Please, Nick. I need you to understand. I did the right thing._ It had to be the right thing.

"Nick, I ..." She made an abrupt gesture, then looked down at her feet.

He came closer, took her by the elbow. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"Come on," he repeated firmly, pulling her further inside, making her sit down opposite him at the table. "Adalind's got a doctor's appointment, we're alone."

Her heart sank. "Right," she said. And then, rolling her shoulders uncomfortably, hunching in on herself, "Is she here? She's not here, is she?"

"No. She's safe." Not pretending to misunderstand for a moment which _she_ Trubel had meant.

"Safe!" Trubel let out an incredulous laugh. "She's a Hexenbiest, she's not ... Nick, she nearly killed you!"

Nick eyed her, dark and furious and so visibly hurt, she wanted to reach out. But she'd lost that right, hadn't she?

"I don't know what Chavez told you about Juliette," he said harshly, "but this is _me_. How could you?" The last words burst out of him, and he looked like he wanted to take them back, but couldn't.

"You said to kill her!" Trubel snapped back, then clapped her hand in front of her mouth.

Nick stared at her for a long moment. "Yeah," he managed eventually, "I did, didn't I?" And he put his face into his hands, slumping onto the table.

Trubel could only sit helplessly and watch. She didn't understand.

"How did you even ..." Nick lifted his head, and his eyes looked watery. "I held her in my arms," he said. "She was dead. I held her. How is she even alive?"

Trubel bit her lips. That part, she could answer. He wasn't going to like it, but at least it was just facts. "My crossbow," she said. "The arrows were poisoned. I didn't shoot to kill. She was just knocked out."

"She was dead!" Nick looked almost frantic now. "We buried her."

"You didn't." Then she finally blurted out the truth. "That wasn't her."

"What?"

A deep breath. "I knocked her out. Chavez's people came in - they used a hallucinogenic, blew it in ahead of them. They took Juliette and ... substituted another body." Under the weight of his eyes, she added, "Chavez, she's got an apothecary - the poison was from her. And the Zaubertrank that made the corpse look like Juliette. Easy to do with dead things, apparently." She looked down.

"You lied to me."

"I didn't want to hurt you!"

Bitterly, "Truth hurts sometimes."

It did. Trubel wanted to hide her face, but she wasn't going to let him see that. He didn't need her any more, hadn't needed her since he'd become a Grimm again. And she didn't need _him_ , now, did she? She could keep going, on her own. She always had.

The future closed in on her like the coming flood. There was nowhere to run. She was on her own. She deserved it, maybe.

"Nick - why did you ..." Trubel made herself stop chewing on her lip. "She tried to kill you!" she blurted out again. "Why would you let her out?"

He looked away. "She's Juliette," was all he said, his voice nearly breaking on the name, and she couldn't stand it; she had to look away. Then, "I can't do this."

What?

His eyes pinned her. "Just ... wait," he ordered, then stood and pulled out his phone, starting to pace.

"She's here," he told whoever it was on the other end. Juliette? Surely not. Trubel's throat closed. She'd come after her, wouldn't she?

"Yeah," Nick told his phone, "that's probably for the best. Here?" Then his eyebrows went up, and he turned to Trubel. "He wants to know if Chavez has someone on my house."

"No!" A shuddering breath. "I talked her into ... I'm supposed to be doing that." Anyway, who was _he?_ Monroe, maybe? Trubel couldn't bring herself to ask.

Nick threw her a glare, then turned away. "Apparently that's Trubel's job," he spat into the phone. After a pause, "All right." A deep breath. "All right. See you then."

~*~

A sharp knock on the door. Trubel shot up from her seat and watched as Nick opened quickly, visibly relieved.

It wasn't Monroe, or even Hank, who came in. It was the captain. Everyone called him that, she thought irrelevantly. _He's not my captain; I don't owe him a thing._

But he clearly knew what was going on, and Nick had called him. Whatever that might mean. Nothing good for her, that was for sure. She wrapped her arms around her body.

"Miss Rubel," Renard said mildly. "Or should I call you Trubel?"

She winced. Her nickname had always been a condemnation, but from Nick's mouth - from Juliette's, from Monroe's and Rosalee's, from Bud's, from _Josh's_ \- it had become something else. Now ... She managed a careless shrug. "Trubel's fine."

"Sit down, Trubel," Nick said behind her. Reflexively she obeyed. He sounded more confident now, less hurt, as if having the captain here had given him some kind of grounding. They went to sit down while Nick repeated her explanations about Juliette's faked death to Renard.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Nick snapped at her. He'd never raised his voice to her before, and he wasn't exactly shouting now, but it certainly felt like being shouted at.

Trubel stared across at him, trying to meet his eyes, trying not to show weakness, and knowing she was failing. She clenched her stomach, gritted her teeth. "She was trying to kill you!" she snapped back. "I did what I had to - for you, Nick, don't you get it? You couldn't have, so I did."

"Except you didn't kill her. Did you really think I wouldn't find out?"

Maybe she had. "It doesn't matter," she insisted. "Juliette is dead anyway." Now it was her voice that was breaking. "She was gone the moment the Hexenbiest took her over. She's gone, and I couldn't ... It was the only thing I could do!" Unforgivably, her eyes were watering.

Renard's eyes were hooded. Trubel had never managed to get a read on him, the few times she'd met him. Now he was examining her, cold distance compared to Nick's heated anger. "That's very convenient, isn't it?" he said, almost mildly. "She's not herself, so you can do whatever you care to do to her with impunity. It's not Juliette, so it simply doesn't matter."

"We had to stop her," Trubel said, as firmly as she could, trying to hold steady in the face of his terrifying focus. "She was incredibly powerful, and she was working with the Royals. We had to stop her."

"And that's all it was," Renard prompted.

"Yes!"

He tilted his head at her, something dark shivering over his face. "And that's why you went to argue with her several times? That's why, when you saw her escape, you didn't try to stop her? Of course. That makes perfect sense."

He was mocking her.

He was _mocking_ her, and damn it, he was right, but what else could she have done? She wanted to scream.

Nick rubbed his hand over his face, looking incredibly hollow. "It doesn't work that way," he said tiredly, "Whatever she's done, she's Juliette. And if I'd killed her, I'd have killed Juliette." He hesitated. "If you'd killed her, you'd have killed Juliette. Not some Hexenbiest looking like her - _Juliette_."

Trubel's eyes burned, staring at Nick, who, with one terrible sentence, had shattered the last of her self-delusions. She'd known. Not from the start, but after talking to her - deep down, she'd known.

"Juliette," she whispered, and her throat was closing again. "Oh God. How could she ..." How could that have been Juliette?

"Never mind that now," Renard inserted smoothly. "You weren't planning to work for Chavez when you left here, did you?"

Trubel flinched. "Of course not!" She straightened her back. "I didn't even think I'd hear from her again, but I guess she wasn't going to let a Grimm go that easily." At least she'd kept her off Nick's back; with any luck, Chavez still had no idea about Nick.

"How did she make contact again?" The captain's voice was calm, clinical.

"She called me." Trubel was still disgusted with herself for that. She'd had no idea Chavez had had her number. "I should have switched phones."

"You should have." A humorless smile from the captain. "So she called, and then?"

"She asked my help. There was this Klaustreich gang - three brothers - who were terrorizing a neighbourhood." She shrugged. "It was legit; I checked it out first. And I didn't see any reason why not. She knew about me anyway, and I got the chance to check her out some."

"So you started working for her." Nick leaned his forehead on his fist, elbow braced on the table.

Trubel ducked her head. "It seemed fine. I mean - they're not exactly squeamish, but it wasn't anything weird. You know what I mean." She couldn't bring herself to look up, even to make sure either of them actually did understand.

"And then?" Renard inserted smoothly.

"And then Monroe emailed me and said Nick needed my help. And suddenly Chavez said she was going to go back to Portland, that there was a Hexenbiest on the loose, and if I wanted in." She did look up then. "I thought it might be Adalind! Yeah, sure I said I wanted in. I didn't expect it to be Juliette!"

Nick was glaring at her again. "Why didn't you call me? Why didn't you _say_ anything?"

"I didn't want to give you away!"

"And that was all, was it?" Renard did skeptical like no one else, she had to give him credit for that.

"And ... I didn't want you to have to kill her. I mean, she still _looked_ like Juliette."

The two men looked at each other. "Looked like," Nick said, tonelessly. "God."

It was Renard who broke the resulting silence, eventually. "Chavez," he said, prompting her. "What is she doing now?"

"Looking for Juliette," Trubel admitted. "But she doesn't really know where to look, other than here."

Nick let out a snarl. "We can't have her constantly sniffing around here. We need something on her."

The captain nodded. "We need information." Renard turned to Trubel again. "Details, please, on everything you can remember about Chavez's operation and her modus operandi."

  
  


* * *

  
  


Renard didn't watch as Trubel stood and climbed the stairs, retreating; he kept his eyes on Nick instead. Nick was clearly less certain about Trubel's loyalties than he wanted to be, and felt guilty for it. He'd taken the young woman under her wing. Her betrayal and the distance between them was no doubt difficult.

Nick would have to come to terms with it.

"We'll know very soon," Renard commented after a moment.

Nick's head snapped around. "What do you mean?"

"Whether she's really keeping Chavez off our back," he amended, indulging him. Nick had understood him perfectly, of course.

"She saved your life once," Nick said, irrelevantly.

Renard nodded. "And I'm very grateful for that."

Nick glowered. "Doesn't it ever surprise you when someone betrays you?"

"I'm not sure that she did." Renard shrugged. "And neither are you, or you would have been a great deal less calm."

A bitter huff. "You call that calm?"

"I've seen you truly furious. More than once." Renard examined Nick for a moment, the tension in his body painful to watch. "She betrayed a trust," he offered. "That doesn't necessarily mean she betrayed you." Of course, it might, but he thought in this case the risk was slight.

Renard had had to make that choice too many times in his life; weighing risks was easy. There was only one person whose betrayal would genuinely shock him, and that was his mother. _Best not to bring up mothers just now._ Nick would not like that answer, despite the fact that what doubt there lay between them was almost certainly reciprocated. They did trust each other - more than Renard would have thought possible, at the start - but even now, only to a point. There were tests they had never been forced to undergo, and Renard would gladly take the remaining doubt to be spared them.

Knowing Nick, the Grimm felt differently.

Nick's eyes, in the mean time, in the process of avoiding Renard, had wandered toward the stairs, and Renard saw him almost physically flinch away. It was more subtle than that, but his eyes changed direction too quickly to mean anything else. "We should go to work," he said eventually.

Renard nodded. He'd already been in his office when Nick had called; his absence should not be longer than strictly necessary.

They walked out the door. Before they had to part to their separate cars, Renard asked, "Do you intend to speak to Juliette?"

Nick grimaced. "Maybe. Not sure that I should, though." He looked deeply uncomfortable, and not only because of everything that had happened between him and his former girlfriend. Renard couldn't claim to understand Nick's visceral reaction to her becoming a Hexenbiest, but he was certainly aware of it.

He'd have to get over it. Juliette could hardly remain in hiding at Renard's house forever. That she'd been willing to stay was ... gratifying, but that was a feeling that had misled him before, and he wouldn't let it sway him this time.

He had a bad habit of letting Hexenbiests get the better of him. 

"She won't remain a secret for long," he reminded Nick. "Do you think it will go better once everyone knows?" Nick wouldn't meet his eyes. "You have to talk to her at some point," Renard pressed. "Do you think she won't notice?"

"I know." Nick ran a hand over his weary face, rubbed at the back of his neck. "I don't want to ..." He grimaced, and looked away. "I don't want to set her off again," he confessed, under his breath.

A fair argument, Renard had to admit, but not one that would hold indefinitely.

For now, though, he let Nick get away with it.


	7. Chapter 6

Leaving the precinct to go and interview a woman whose brother had been found dead in Forest Park should have been a welcome distraction. The coroner had thought natural causes were likely, and Nick might have suspected Renard of going easy on him if he hadn't worked too many cases just like this before. Besides, if Renard had ever shown any inclination to go easy on any of his detectives, Nick hadn't seen it yet.

Talking to the next-of-kin was never pleasant, but at least this didn't promise to be complicated. Yet.

They were in the car, Hank at the wheel as usual, when Nick's phone rang. A glance at the display: Rosalee. He blinked. It would have been Monroe if they were just checking up on him, wouldn't it?

With a sense of foreboding, he took the call. "Hey, Rosalee." His voice probably sounded rough, but he couldn't help that.

From the driver's seat, Hank threw him a quick sideways look.

"Hi, Nick." Rosalee hesitated briefly. "Sorry to bother you. Let me just say, I'm not sure this even is anything. But I thought you should probably know." She stopped abruptly. 

"Something happened?" Nick asked, startled by her tone. She sounded angry more than worried. "Something at the spice shop?"

"Yes." Another pause. "Two men in suits, trying to buy ingredients for a Zaubertrank. A locator potion," she amended. 

"A what?" Nick took a moment to understand; then, suddenly, his mind was reeling. Men in suits. Chavez's people? And ... _locator potion_? "That's a thing?" Damn. Could they track down Juliette, just like that? 

His stomach knotted itself together. He needed to warn her. Could he warn her? Did she even have a phone? If they got to her again ...

"Well, yes," Rosalee said. "If you don't mind what it's made of." She sounded sharp and angry. "Which I do, which is why I _don't_ sell that kind of thing. Not to mention it's outlawed by the Wesen Council."

"Yeah, not to mention," Nick could hear Monroe commenting from the background, faintly but clearly.

Illegal potion ingredients. Unethical spells. A Hexenbiest containment cell that could only have been built with the dying blood of another Hexenbiest. 

_Not squeamish,_ Trubel had said. Had she known? Nick couldn't imagine.

Nick forced himself to think rationally. "Rosalee," he asked, trying to sound calm but knowing it came out too rushed, too insistent, "is there anyone else they could go to, in Portland?"

"No." Rosalee sounded grimly satisfied; she didn't seem to notice his urgency. "Too expensive. The usual people dealing in illegal ingredients couldn't afford it, not without a customer to hand. Someone might know where to get some, but it would take time."

Nick let out a relieved breath. Juliette didn't seem to be in any immediate danger. But Rosalee was implying something seriously nasty. 

"Um," he said. "What exactly are we talking about, here? What's that potion made of?"

"Hundjägers' noses," Rosalee told him. "Well, and the target's blood, plus some harmless stuff, like quartz and agate powder, but that's neither here nor there."

Nick winced. "That's ... yeah," he said, eloquently. He had no fondness for Hundjägers, given most of them seemed to be working for the Verrat, but this was like the Willahara foot all over again. Chavez was Wesen herself; didn't she mind? Then again, so were Leporem Venators. "What did you tell them?"

"That I didn't have any," she replied promptly, sounding smug. "But I might find something, so they should give me their phone number. Not that I wanted them to think I was that kind of apothecary, but I figured ..." An inarticulate, displeased sound.

"Rosalee, you're fantastic," Nick said, meaning it with every ounce of his being. He had no idea yet just what to do about the possible FBI agents, but it was a start. The beginnings of several plans started bouncing around his brain. "Seriously, I mean it. Thanks."

"Nick," Rosalee said carefully, "do you know who they are? Who they're after?"

So she hadn't been as oblivious as he'd thought. Damn. 

"No," he said curtly, then realized he'd answered too quickly. "I'm not sure," he amended, and that at least was true. He couldn't be sure Chavez was behind this; it might be entirely unrelated. _Yeah, right._ "Might be something ... but I'll have to look into it. Give me the phone number?"

Rosalee did. "Thanks," he said again. "I'll let you know if I hear anything." And he cut the call, breathing a sigh of relief.

Then he remembered Hank, who'd overheard his half of the conversation, urgency and relief and deflection and all.

"Anything going on?" Hank asked, right on the mark, turning for a moment to throw him a sharp-eyed look. The corner of his mouth had twisted down in worry.

"Weird people trying to buy illegal ingredients at the spice shop," Nick explained. That part was easy.

"Seriously?" Hank said, grimacing at the windscreen and lifting a hand to scratch the back of his head. "More magic? That doesn't sound good, man. It never goes well, does it?"

Wasn't that true. For all of them. "Yeah. Rosalee got me a phone number, so I'll check it out, but not sure what we can do beyond that. Unless they appear again."

"Want to bet it's unlisted?" Hank said, after a moment and another sideways glance, apparently letting him off the hook.

Nick rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't bet against that."

When Hank brought the car to a stop across the street from the next-of-kin's house, Nick hesitated. But he couldn't put this off. "Give me a minute," he told Hank as they got out of the car. "I need to call the captain about this."

Hank's eyebrows shot up, but he waved at him, a gesture that said, _You do what you have to do._

Surprised at being let off so easily but too impatient to question his good luck, Nick moved a few steps away to lean against a lantern post as he pulled out his phone.

Hank remained where he was, standing by the driver's door, waiting, giving the impression of not listening. 

"It's me," Nick said when the call connected. "Rosalee called. She says some guys in suits were trying to buy ingredients for a locator potion." He broke off. He couldn't mention Juliette's name where Hank might hear.

A brief silence. "Trubel did say they had a competent apothecary," Renard said slowly. "They do seem to rely on her quite a bit." He sounded displeased, but not overly worried. But then again, Renard was generally unflappable so long as things didn't get personal. "And we already knew they didn't mind stooping to questionable methods."

Faking Juliette's death. The very real death it would have taken to create that Hexenbiest cage. Renard was right; this was perfectly in line with what they'd known.

Reliance on magic was a potential weakness. 

"So you know what that stuff's made of."

"It's come up," Renard said, impatiently. "This is fairly notorious, in certain circles. Anything else?"

 _Warn Juliette._ Nick's throat seemed to close up at the thought. "If you were someone who wanted to create that kind of potion," he mused out loud, oblique hint at the true subject, "wouldn't you bring ingredients, too? Rather than relying on local sources."

A snort. "I imagine they did. But Juliette is at my house, and my house is ... protected." Shrewdly, "Hank is with you?"

"Yes." Then Renard's words penetrated. He thought they'd used up their supply. Right. _Of course_ the captain's Hexenbiest mother had done something to his house. "Anyway, Rosalee refused, but she got us a phone number." He quoted it.

"Good thinking," Renard approved. "We can use that."

Nick almost smiled with vicious pleasure. "My thoughts exactly."

Renard hesitated. "Nick," he said. Only that.

That sounded ominous. "What?"

"This is too cumbersome. We need to talk properly. Come see me when you're back at the precinct."

Nick didn't like the sound of that, but he could hardly refuse. "Right."

He'd deliberately not looked at Hank during his conversation. When he put his phone away he looked up and found Hank leaning against the car, chin on his chest but clearly still keeping watch from half-closed eyes. Nick braced himself and went over, not exactly ready to face the inevitable inquisition but aware there was nothing to it, now, but get through it.

Hank's eyes flickered over his face, searching for something. Then, "Okay, man," he said, almost ironically despite his obvious discomfort, "if you're done here, we've got a dead man's sister to talk to." And with a one-shouldered shrug, he started out across the street.

Too baffled to even be relieved at the inexplicable reprieve, Nick followed.

~*~

The drive back had been strange. The sister had proved to be a Lausenschlange, which meant the dead man had been, too. It told them exactly nothing about his death; Wesen had heart attacks the same as anyone, after all. They'd have to wait for the medical report to get back to them. And that was all Hank would talk about - the case.

By the time they got back to the precinct, Nick was ready to twitch out of his skin and glad to be able to escape to his meeting with the captain.

He closed the door behind him. These conferences were getting to be a habit. He should have felt more uncomfortable about that, shouldn't he? Given ... everything. "You wanted to see me?" 

"Yes." Renard leaned back in his chair. "You should hear this. I made some inquiries about our friend Chavez, and I heard back just before you called."

Nick perked up. Something useful, finally. And that was one reason he wasn't uncomfortable, he remembered: he could _work_ with Renard, smoothly and efficiently, no matter what. 

"Agent Chavez isn't with the Bureau’s Portland office. She's part of a task force under Assistant Director Robeson. Officially they're working internal investigation. Unofficially ..." Renard's mouth twisted. "The name's quite well known. Robeson has been crucial in keeping Wesen-related matters from the FBI's official attention. He has ties to the Wesen Council."

"The Council?" That didn't make sense. "They're violating Council law, with that potion."

"Mm. My source indicates Robeson seems to have become ..." He reached for the appropriate word. "Ambitious, shall we say."

"Picking his own cases," Nick translated, "and using FBI agents for his own purposes?" At Renard's nod, "The Council doesn't know?"

"It doesn't seem so. Which might give us leverage."

"Blackmail?" Nick pressed his lips together. He'd have preferred a more direct approach, but couldn't immediately think of any. "That would be dangerous, wouldn't it?"

"No doubt." Renard steepled his hands on his desk, looking very calm. 

Nick hesitated. "Did you warn Juliette?"

Renard's eyes narrowed. "I'm not your messenger, you know."

Bristling, Nick leaned forward in his chair. "I didn't know how to reach her."

"And you would have, otherwise?" The captain's disbelief was palpable. "I'll text you her new number."

That was a challenge. Nick held up under it for another moment; then, "What would I even say to her?"

"Anything," Renard said, "before it's too late. Before whatever goodwill you gained by breaking her out is used up." A shrewd look. "But you might start with your friends."

He hadn't expected that. "What?"

"Robeson has a lot of reach. And that means so might Chavez. Your friends need to know what they might be up against."

That was true enough. "I should warn Monroe and Rosalee," Nick admitted. "And Hank, but particularly them. What's that got to do with Juliette?"

Renard looked at him almost pityingly. "Warn them fully." He smiled thinly. "And warn Juliette that you're telling them." 

"No." That came instinctively, without thought. Nick wasn't even sure what he was refusing. Talking to Juliette? Or telling Monroe and the others about her? Either. Both.

He couldn't warn them properly without telling them, of course. But every muscle in his body seemed to have tensed at the prospect.

"You can't afford to wait much longer." Renard lifted his eyebrows, challenging Nick to contradict him. 

Nick glared in return, but knew it was a poor substitute for a real argument. Renard wasn't wrong, he grudgingly admitted to himself. He just needed a little more time. 

He left the captain's office uncomfortable and guilty, and furious at Renard for forcing him to face the truth, bristling under the weight of Renard's judgment. His partner's eyes were on him immediately. 

"Something going on with the captain?" Hank asked, eyes flickering between Nick and the captain's office. 

"Just Rosalee's illegal potions guys," Nick deflected. "He's ..." What had Renard's phrase been? "... making inquiries." A moment's hesitation. "Listen, there may be someone sniffing around after all of us. Keep your eyes open, but if you notice something, let me know. Don't do anything just yet, all right?"

"Okay," Hank said, sounding skeptical but again, not probing further. He eyed Nick speculatively for another moment, but let it go. 

Nevertheless, Nick couldn't shake the feeling there was something _knowing_ in Hank's expression.

~*~

It wasn't until they'd come back from talking to the victim's doctor - now that they had the next-of-kin's permission and all - that Nick let himself think about Renard's challenge again.

Nick had called Monroe from the road, staring down at his contact list for too long before. Juliette was still #1. He'd changed the number to the one Renard had, indeed, texted him, then stared at it some more. When he'd finally put his thumb down on Monroe's name, mercifully, for once, the call had gone to voicemail. He'd left him the same brief warning he'd given Hank.

He knew it wasn't enough. They needed to know the rest of it. And Renard had been right; he needed to warn Juliette first. 

She'd been so angry when he'd told Hank what had happened to her - and that had been early, almost still at the start.

Nick dreaded talking to her now, knew exactly all the ways that particular conversation, almost inevitably, could and would go wrong. But it needed to be done. 

Nick had never liked it when Renard had put pressure on him, but the man had always had an unpleasant tendency to be _right_ about it. He remembered their terse exchanges about telling Wu the truth. Nick had resisted, dragged that out as long as he could and longer, and in the mean time, Wu had very nearly made things very difficult for Trubel.

Renard had stalled for him, had covered his back. But he hadn't been happy.

This time, Nick wasn't sure Renard would let him get away with stalling, not for much longer. Something had, irrevocably, changed between them. Perhaps they'd simply been through too much together. Or perhaps it was because it was Juliette, and try as he might, even Renard couldn't pretend that wasn't personal for him, too.

That thought should have been more uncomfortable. Nick was still uneasy with the way things stood between Juliette and Renard, but he was more glad than not that Renard cared. He'd tried to help from the start, even if it hadn't worked, even if he hadn't done it right. Neither had Nick, after all.

Their mutual, shared failure bound them together in yet another way, as did the second chance they had, now. 

Nick's skin felt too tight. He looked down at his forearm. There was no gooseflesh, though it felt like it. Maybe Juliette would be all right, after all. Maybe they all would. But even though she hadn't attacked either of them again, had stayed at Renard's house peacefully enough, he was no more sure about Juliette today than he'd been yesterday.

 _And that won't change if you keep avoiding her,_ an obnoxious voice from the back of his mind insisted, almost smugly. It sounded like Renard. Of course it did.

He'd wanted to talk to her so desperately, just after their break-up. He hadn't known how to find her, at first; then, she'd stopped listening.

But he knew where she was now.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Renard knocked on Juliette's door. He had been somewhat surprised to find Nick on his doorstep, this soon. Surprised, but relieved - he'd fully expected Nick to take at least another day to work himself up to the necessity before him.

 _Necessity._ Speaking to his former girlfriend, whom he clearly still loved, should not have been that. And Renard should not have been a necessary third party in that conversation. But Nick's eyes had been near pleading; he'd seemed almost fragile underneath his determination. And much as Renard disliked the idea of playing mediator, he knew he would attempt the part.

There was no reaction from Juliette's room. Renard repeated the action more sharply.

"What?" came the unfriendly reply.

"Please come down for a moment, Juliette," Renard said, as blandly as he could manage. Keep it calm; keep it professional. He couldn't let himself get drawn into all that personal drama again. Oh, who was he kidding? He was already in the middle of it. "We need to talk about our next steps."

Silence from within; then a shuffling sound. The door opened a crack, and Juliette looked out. He'd had dinner with her earlier, bringing her up to speed on Trubel's testimony, Rosalee's news, and the information from his FBI contact. She'd remained mostly silent, taking everything in but not outwardly reacting. He'd found himself uncomfortably wondering what was going on in her mind.

Now, her hair was somewhat untidy, and her eyes were red. She'd been crying.

 _Good._ He couldn't remember her crying much, last time. Perhaps this time, she would allow herself to feel something other than anger.

"By _we_ , you don't just mean you and me, do you?" she asked, her inflection making it clear the question was rhetorical. Of course; she couldn't have missed the door bell.

"Nick is downstairs," he answered anyway. And told her the same thing he'd told Nick earlier: "You can't avoid him forever, not while we are at least nominally on the same side."

"Nominally." She bit her lips. "Is that how you see it? Is that how _he_ sees it?"

Renard shrugged, taking a step back. "For now, we have a common enemy. Anything else is up to you. But I suggest you deal with that later. Now, are you coming?"

Her lips pressed into a thin, white line, and her eyes were dark and watery. After a moment, she nodded. "Give me a minute."

Renard nodded back, and turned toward the stairs.

~*~

Juliette had taken the time to wipe her face and run a comb through her hair, but even though her body was held stiff and erect, to Renard's eyes she looked like someone who'd much rather curl up under a blanket than face two men she, arguably, cared about. Or had cared about, once upon a time.

Nick's eyes had snapped to her the moment she'd appeared on the stairs, but he hadn't managed to look her in the face for very long.

"A drink?" Renard asked briskly. He was intimately familiar with hosting conferences between fractured factions with a common interest, but there was something almost hilarious about having this exact atmosphere with _Nick and Juliette_ in his living room. 

Well; it would have been hilarious if he hadn't pitied them both.

Nick threw him a dark look; he ignored it. He wasn't about to forego the mention of alcohol in Nick's presence forever, and so far Nick had responded well to the re-establishment of the status quo.

Juliette waved him away. "You said we needed to talk," she said sharply. "So, talk."

Renard poured himself something anyway, for the convenience of the prop, then turned to the former couple. Nick was sitting in a corner of the sofa; Juliette, unsurprisingly, had chosen an armchair. He walked over and took the other corner of the couch. What an interesting display of alliances. 

Juliette looked between them. "Aren't you two cozy," she said drily. "Joined at the hip lately, are you?"

Nick winced, and Renard found himself go very still for a moment. Juliette's eyes went wide for an instant; then she seemed to shake off the thought, perhaps thinking she must be mistaken.

"Chavez," Renard said, to divert her, to lead them all away from the distraction. Time to begin the necessary discussion. They both turned to him. "We know a little more about who she's working for, now. It's highly doubtful she'll simply give up and leave."

"Yeah," Nick said. "We can't just sit here and wait for her to catch up to us."

"What are you getting at?" Juliette threw up her hands, already frustrated. "Fine. Sooner or later she's going to turn up here. Well, I'm _not_ letting her get to me again."

"Yeah," Nick threw in. The surprise on Juliette's face clearly caught him by surprise in turn, and he looked hurt for a moment; then his face closed. "But we don't know how far she'll go, or who she'll run over along the road. We need to tell the others."

"What, you haven't already?" The sharp reply was reflexive, but Renard could see her taken by surprise the second time in a row. She clearly hadn't expected to still be a secret.

"I said we hadn't," Renard reminded her. 

"That's you. Not Nick." She nearly spat the name. "Nick likes to give secrets away. Other people's, of course - not his own. _Then,_ he drags his feet for years." A dark look at Nick; a deserved one, Renard thought. Her condemnation was aggressively phrased, but to the best of his knowledge, not inaccurate.

Nick grimaced, then visibly forced himself to meet Juliette's eyes. "Look, I know you weren't happy I told Hank about you, last time, and ..."

"You told Hank before I was ready!" Juliette snapped. "You didn't even give me the chance to tell him myself. And then you threatened to tell everyone else!" Her voice was a snarl, but she didn't woge. Renard decided to count that as progress.

"They needed to know!"

Juliette, teeth bared, leaned back. "Just like they need to know now, is that it? What _I_ think never mattered. Not when you kept things from me, and not when you gave my secrets away." Abruptly she stood. "I'm not dealing with this. I won't sit and nod at what you're going to do anyway, just to salve your conscience."

Well, that had degenerated fast. But then, Nick had been right - everything they said to each other seemed to be taken the worst possible way.

Nick, Renard realized with a flash of sudden insight, would probably have preferred being outed by someone else to having to confess the truth himself. Had Nick ever confessed any secret to anyone without dire need?

Renard set his glass on the couch table and got up, stepping into Juliette's way, preventing her from leaving. "Then don't," he suggested, his hands closing gently around her shoulders. "If you don't agree, don't agree. But listen first."

She glared up at him, but didn't shrug off his hands. " _You_ agree with him, of course."

"He's right. This time," Renard added, very deliberately, and let go of her. He wasn't going to take a side in old arguments; that never led anywhere good. "We know Chavez is dangerous." He resumed his seat.

"Just ..." Nick shifted on the couch uncomfortably, looking up at her. "Look, I know you're angry with me. But Monroe and Rosalee and the others ... they did nothing wrong."

Juliette laughed, high and artificial. "Nothing wrong," she repeated, sitting back down with a disgusted expression. "They did just the same as you. None of them cared about _me_. Not when it mattered." Her eyes were hard. "Such good friends, weren't we all? But in the end it was all Nick, Nick, Nick. Even Rosalee -" She bit back the rest of the sentence.

"You're always angry now," Nick said, a confused kind of hurt underneath the hardness of his narrowed eyes. 

Renard wished he could excuse himself from the conversation, but it didn't seem likely to go well.

Juliette sat with clenched fists. "You're always so in control, aren't you? Nothing ever gets the better of you. You just walk out." She sneered at Nick. "Oh, I remember the stories your Aunt Marie used to tell, from when you were a boy. But that boy's gone. God, I wish you'd just get angry like a normal person sometimes!"

"What?" Nick sounded baffled more than anything now. "I don't get angry?" 

"Do you?" she challenged. "I've never seen it."

Perhaps to Nick's credit, Renard thought, but probably not. Had Nick really kept such a large part of himself locked away from her?

"I have," Renard said simply.

"Really?" Juliette's eyes were almost hungry.

Renard wasn't sure what she was looking for, but in this he could indulge her. "Do you remember Officer Acker?" he asked. "You weren't standing on the other side of the mirror when Nick couldn't get him to talk."

Juliette had the grace to look uncomfortable. Did she remember how desperate she'd been to help Monroe? That was still inside her, under all the broken fury and the manic embrace of her new powers.

"And there was a certain Manticore bounty hunter who wouldn't play according to Nick's script and refused to woge," Renard added, sardonically. "I believe you disposed of him, in the end."

Juliette stilled. "I think that was the first time," she said abruptly. 

"First time for what?" Nick still sounded confused. She glared at him; he glared back.

"I'd had ... episodes, before," she explained, grudgingly. "Wogeing without meaning to, eruptions of telekinesis." A sideways glance at Renard. "You remember."

"I remember," he confirmed. It seemed the conversation had de-escalated for now. "You weren't even sure you were the one who did it, at first."

Juliette nodded, eyes drifting, far away. "But the Manticore was ..." She shook her head. "He threatened me. He was going to kill me. Then I woged, and suddenly I knew. Not just how to use my powers, but what I needed to do. I could have stopped him, easy as anything. But I wanted him _dead_ , and I threw his threat right back at him and impaled him on his own scorpion tail." A snarl. "I was even more afraid of myself, after that. Silly me. I should have been proud."

"I see," Renard said, throwing a glance at Nick. Clearly this story was as new to Nick as it was to him. "Congratulations; it appears Maréchaussée bring it out in both of you."

They looked at each other, uncomfortable.

"I'm glad you killed him," Nick said, eventually.

"Are you? But think," she mocked, "if only he'd got to me first, Mommy would still be alive."

Nick shot up. Renard rose more calmly and pushed him back onto the couch. "Don't," he said, with emphasis. Then, to Juliette, "And you. If you want a fight, pick it somewhere not in my living room." He pointed. "There's the door."

Juliette crossed her arms over her chest, sulking.

Nick looked ready to explode. "You said you didn't know. Do you even care?" he snapped at Juliette.

"I don't know," she snapped back. "Would she have cared if she'd seen me like this?" And she woged after all. 

Nick averted his eyes almost immediately, a reaction Renard found as curious as it was irritating.

"You stopped caring," Juliette added, viciously.

Nick flinched back as if she'd punched him in the gut. "I didn't." It came out sounding almost like a plea. "I didn't," he repeated, making himself look at her again, eyes searching her woged face, body so tense it was painful to look at.

It was Juliette who looked away again first, this time. Her woge ebbed away. "I think I want that drink after all," she said.

"Help yourself." Renard gestured toward the sideboard and watched as she took a glass, chose between beverages, and poured.

"I didn't know," she said when she sat down again, fingers tense around the glass. "About the neighbors either. I don't know what I ..." She shook her head. "He asked me about the houses around ours." She made a face as she realized she'd said _ours_ , reminder of the couple they'd been. "I should have ..."

Nick was staring at her, appalled.

"You should have," Renard agreed, before Nick could say something unfortunate. "You gave Kenneth everything he wanted. Did he offer you a place with the family? That's what they generally do."

"Kenneth and your father both," Juliette admitted, chewing on her lip. "I nearly went with him."

"Why didn't you?" Nick asked tightly. "I saw you go to that helicopter. But then you turned up at the house."

"I wanted it to be over!" Desperately. "I couldn't just - I don't know." She took a greedy swallow from her glass, then set it abruptly on the table. "I just wanted it to be over," she repeated, tonelessly.

Renard could read the look on Nick's face easily enough. Nick wanted to reach out to her, but didn't know how. And Juliette ...

Almost without meaning to, Renard found himself going to stand beside Juliette's armchair, putting a hand on her shoulder. She glared up at him, but her eyes were watery, and her lip quivered. After a moment, she pulled herself up, directly in his personal space, closer than he would have preferred, leaning against him until her face was buried in his shoulder and her hands clutched awkwardly at his back.

Cautiously, carefully, he closed his arms around her and held her as she trembled.

It seemed to last for a very long time, and through all of it, Renard was excruciatingly aware of Nick's eyes on them both, half jealous, half grateful, and all helplessly confused.

Eventually Juliette pulled away. "That's enough," she said, looking between Nick and Renard. "I think that's enough." And she picked up her drink again. "Who do you want to tell?" She sounded very tired.

Renard took his previous seat again. It seemed the conversation was back on target after all; he'd nearly despaired of it. 

Nick answered. "Monroe and Rosalee, Hank, Wu ..."

"Not Wu," Juliette interrupted. "I don't know him well enough."

Renard had no doubt that had nothing to do with it; she was negotiating for the sake of it. He understood the sentiment well enough.

He and Nick shared a brief look. "For the moment," Renard agreed.

"And if you even _think_ about telling Adalind, all bets are off," Juliette added harshly, her face contorting with hatred.

"Yeah, that was never going to happen," Nick muttered, and Renard watched surprise bloom on Juliette's face a third time this evening. 

"Adalind reacts," Renard added. "Usually destructively. The less she has to react to, the better." He wasn't entirely comfortable with the situation, but couldn't see a better solution. Adalind couldn't be trusted. She'd betrayed everyone, several times over. And if she thought she was in danger here, she'd turn to whoever might promise her safety next. She always did.

If he'd offered her safety the first time ... Renard pushed the thought away. It was too late for that, several unforgivable choices too late, on both sides.

"Then we are agreed," he summed up. "Since Juliette shouldn't unnecessarily leave this house for the time being, we can call Monroe, Rosalee and Hank here, tomorrow. That would probably be best."

"Show, don't tell," Nick muttered, sarcastically.

Renard saw Juliette shiver briefly at the prospect, but she said nothing, and her face gave nothing away.

They'd reached an agreement, though. Renard told himself to be content with that. They'd agreed on a course of action, even if it was only the next single step. It was a start. 

Even if Renard had had to step in and involve himself in their personal issues far more than he was comfortable with, it was a start.

~*~

"Did she mean that?" Nick asked Renard quietly, not much later, standing in the doorway. Juliette had retreated upstairs. "Does she really think I just stopped caring? That all of us just ..." He bit his lip.

Renard thought for a moment. "I think it felt that way to her," he said, knowing it for the condemnation it was, watching the grief in Nick's expression grow. "I think she doesn't know what to do with the knowledge that you still do."

"I wish I did," Nick admitted, grimacing, then took his leave with a jerky nod.


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed the total number of chapters going up by one. That's because I had to divide the original Chapter 7 into two - things got a bit out of hand, length-wise.

When Nick called Monroe and Rosalee the next day, he deliberately did so across the desk from Hank. If he was going to come clean, he might as well start here.

"Are you free tonight?" he asked Monroe. "Because there's some stuff I should tell you."

A brief silence. "Really?" Monroe asked cautiously. "Did something happen?" A pause, then, faster, "I mean, we could tell there was something going on with you. You just didn't seem to want to talk."

He still didn't want to. "Yeah," Nick said, at a loss for words. "Sorry about that." Something had happened; he was uncomfortably aware he'd have pushed away any thought of telling Monroe - telling anyone - if he'd thought he could get away with it.

"Hey, don't be sorry, dude." Monroe's voice was too gentle altogether. "Just talk to us. We're glad you're ..." He trailed off, and Nick wondered how that sentence had been going to continue. _We're glad you're actually talking to us_ , or maybe _We're glad you're not keeping stuff from us any more_ , or even, _We're glad you're getting your head out of your ass_. Well, maybe not the latter, not out loud. Perhaps that was why he'd stopped.

"Yeah," Nick said again, eloquently, and he and Monroe were silent at each other for a long moment, grappling for words.

Rosalee took over then. "We'll be there," she said briskly. "Or did you want to come over?"

"Actually, at the captain's," Nick said. "Around six? I'll call if work gets in the way."

The silence after that was deafening.

"Um," Monroe managed after a while. "Okay?"

And Rosalee's bright "Okay! See you then!" was as fake as anything Nick had ever heard, followed immediately - too rapidly - by the _click_ of the call disconnecting. What the hell?

Across the desk from him, Hank was staring at him, eyebrows climbing as far towards his hairline as they would go. "Anything you want to tell me, Nick?" he said.

Nick cleared his throat. "Yeah, actually," he said. "Tonight, at the captain's. Sorry, I know I've been ..." He knew Hank had noticed something; he just wished he understood what Hank was thinking, why he hadn't pushed for answers yet.

"At the captain's," Hank repeated dubiously, eyes flicking briefly to Renard's office, then back to Nick. "Look, man, I know you've had a tough time. I know you're still grieving, anyone would. But you've been acting weird this week - weirder than before - and now this? You gotta talk to me, man - what's going on with you?"

The way he looked at Nick, the tension around his eyes, the twist of his shoulders, all of it was strange. The worry Nick had expected; the annoyance he probably deserved. But there was an undertone of discomfort, of embarrassment, that didn't quite fit.

Nick remembered Monroe and Rosalee's abrupt silence. That hadn't fit either. What were they all thinking?

 _Where have you been?_ Monroe had asked, the morning after the funeral. He'd lifted his nose and sniffed ...

A hot, humiliating flush went through Nick. Oh God. Had Monroe told ...

Oh God. Of course he'd told Rosalee, and when Hank had mentioned Nick's strange behavior (because of course he had), _of course_ he'd told Hank. And now they were all thinking ...

Nick wanted to slam his head against the desk, or the wall. He covered his eyes with his forearm instead. "Hell. Oh, _hell._ " A helpless giggle forced itself from his throat, bubbling up, the absurdity of it overwhelming.

Of course. That was why Hank had let him off the hook so easily the day before. What with the phone call, and the conferences in Renard's office ... oh God, had he thought Nick and Renard were still ...? What had he imagined going on in Renard's office, behind the closed door and the lowered blinds?

Somehow, that was even more hilarious. Nick opened his eyes, still laughing, looking into Hank's concerned and confused face and couldn't make himself stop.

People's heads were starting to turn to him. Nick ignored them.

Oh God. He deserved this, didn't he? He'd certainly brought it on himself.

He should probably warn Renard, but just considering how that conversation might go threw his brain into a loop. Nick imagined himself saying, _Hank knows we had a one night stand, and now he thinks we're arguing about it. Or maybe he thinks we're having a torrid affair right now, I'm not entirely sure about that._

Yeah, no.

Hank glared at him. "That's not an answer, Nick." He rolled his shoulders, discomfort clear in his pose, but determined now to get an actual reply.

"Not here," Nick managed eventually, a point Hank acknowledged with a conceding grimace. Nick took a deep breath. "Look," he continued, "I don't think I can go through this twice. Just ... tonight, all right?"

After a moment, grudgingly, Hank nodded agreement.

~*~

Monroe, Rosalee and Hank arrived at Renard's house together. Nick saw them get out of Hank's car as he drove up to the house. They'd been talking about him again, hadn't they? Damn.

 _That's what you get for not telling people the truth,_ said the Renard-like voice that had set up camp in the back of his head. _They make up explanations of their own. This one has a certain plausibility to it, don't you think?_

"Hey, guys," Nick said awkwardly as they all approached the door. Hank reached over to ring the door bell, and the captain, expecting them, opened immediately. They all filed in, murmuring somewhat tense greetings.

Nick took a deep breath. He threw an apologetic look at Renard, earning puzzlement in return. "Okay," he said, bracing himself. "I know you're wondering why we're meeting here."

They were silent for a moment, looking from him to Renard and back. "You could say that," Monroe said eventually.

"It's not what you think." And quickly, already feeling a blush creep onto his face, "Yeah, I finally figured out what you all were thinking. Sorry. It's not that."

It was Rosalee who worked up the courage to speak first. "So you and Sean aren't ..."

"No," Nick said brusquely, just as Renard's eyes snapped to him. "That's not what this is about."

"You might have warned me," Renard said, deceptively mildly, into the resulting silence. He'd clearly caught up now, and was none too pleased by the invasion of his privacy.

Nick winced. He wished he could have spared him that. "Sorry." He managed to hold up under Renard's shrewd gaze, knowing the man was reaching the right conclusions very quickly. _Yes,_ he thought bitterly, _I've done it again._

He should have just bitten the bullet and told Renard. Hell, he should have told the others the truth before they came to all the wrong conclusions on their own. _Should have, should have_ \- too late for that now.

"You want to have a go at me for that, I deserve it," Nick added after a moment, too aware of his friends' eyes on them both, but he owed Renard this much. "Can we just ... get through this first?"

Renard, eventually, gave him a jerky, displeased nod.

"Okay, man, let me get this straight," Hank said, stepping forward, looking Nick right in the eye. "All that stuff this week, phone calls to the captain, secret conferences, arguing with him, being close-mouthed as _hell_ about all of it, for no good reason I could see - that's got nothing to do with ... him and you?" He twitched a little on the last, the oblique phrase testament to his discomfort. "Sorry, captain," he offered towards Renard.

Renard merely waved at him in dismissal, clearly having decided to sit this one out and let Nick field the questions. Nick couldn't fault him for that.

"No," he said again. "Seriously, no."

"Dude." Monroe made a face. "You came home with a bruise on your cheekbone that morning, reeking of sex and whisky and _him_."

"Hank says Sean had a fading bruise on his chin on Monday," Rosalee added helpfully. "And you were being weird."

"Weirder than usual," Hank clarified. "Weirder than last week, when you were so out of it, we didn't know what to do any more." A defensive shrug. "What were we supposed to think?"

Renard's expression had turned almost amused by this point. Nick felt a sliver of relief.

"Yes," he finally said, exasperated. This all, uncomfortable and embarrassing as it was, was a distraction from the actual purpose of their meeting. And the urgency of _that_ couldn't be put aside for personal drama, no matter how riveting his friends might find it. "Yes, we had sex, are you happy now? But it still doesn't have anything to do with the rest. Sorry, I mean, you do know that thing about correlation and causation, yeah? So can we _please_ get to the actual point now?"

It almost worked. But then, into the silence, fell a voice from the stairs. "What the hell, Nick?"

Juliette's voice. Nick could hear the collective intake of shocked breath, and blood rushed in his ears as he watched her descend. He hadn't warned Renard, and maybe that hadn't turned out disastrous, but he really should have considered Juliette.

"Juliette?" Rosalee said, hesitant and stunned. "Is it really ..." She trailed off.

"Never mind that now." Juliette's eyes swept briefly over the group gathered in the living room. She looked controlled and severe, face hard and without even a hint of a smile for the people who once had been her friends and family. Then her eyes fixed on Renard. "You slept with Nick?" she snapped. Her gaze switched to Nick, piercing him. "You slept with _him_?"

Nick swallowed. What could he say? _You were dead; it's not like I cheated on you. And we were broken up, anyway._ That would hardly help. He wanted to reassure her it had been nothing, that it had been a drunken slip, a meaningless mistake. Perhaps Renard might even have preferred him to say that. But he couldn't. It wouldn't have been true. And he couldn't shake the premonition that Juliette would somehow _know_.

Drunken, yes. A mistake, yes. But far from meaningless, and more than just a momentary slip. They'd _connected_ ; that had been real, underneath it all. Renard might not have wanted it, but it had been there.

And no matter how much they'd tried to keep their professional distance, it had changed things between them. Not their ability to work together; never that. But things had grown personal in a way they hadn't been before, and they were, irrevocably, in this together now.

"So, what, a Hexenbiest is asking too much, but a Zauberbiest is just fine?" Juliette continued, a low and dangerous snarl, oblivious to the turn of Nick's thoughts.

"It wasn't like that!" he protested, helpless to explain the difference. Was there one? Should there be one? Objectively speaking, probably not.

"I didn't exactly woge at him," Renard said, much more calmly, stepping into the conversation after all. For Juliette, Nick thought, half relieved, half jealous.

Juliette turned to Renard. "What, wasn't it any good?" she asked snidely.

Renard took a step closer and reached out a hand, almost touching her shoulder, but let it fall back to his side before he could make contact. "Juliette," he said gently. "It was the night of your funeral."

That stopped her in her tracks.

"We were rather inebriated," Renard continued. "Or more to the point, completely drunk."

"So?" Juliette didn't miss a beat, but she sounded bitter now rather than poisonously furious. Nick wasn't sure that was any improvement. "What, I should just have poured a bottle of hooch into Nick first, and we'd have been a-ok?"

Renard somehow managed not to roll his eyes. "All I am saying is, rational thought didn't come into it. And I doubt Nick even remembered what I am." A self-deprecating twist of the lip. "People do tend to forget."

That ... wasn't too far from the truth. He hadn't remembered, precisely. During their fight, yes - Renard's Zauberbiest strength had been welcome then. It had allowed Nick to let himself go, no holds barred. Later, though? No. Would he have cared if he had?

Nick remembered the vivid dream image of Renard's woged face close to his, the brush of Zauberbiest lips against his. What had he felt, then? What did he feel now? He couldn't put a word to it. But it wasn't what he'd felt when it was Juliette.

"I should be so lucky." Juliette stabbed a sharp finger in Nick's direction without looking at him. " _He_ just walked out after the most terrifying confession of my life. Because I'm a Hexenbiest. And now you ..."

"I'm sorry," Nick said, taking a step closer to her, daring. Trying. "I know - I'm sorry."

She turned to him after all. "Sorry means nothing."

"Um."

Nick turned at the sound of Monroe's voice. He, Rosalee and Hank were standing there, open-mouthed. Nick winced internally. They'd witnessed the entire exchange.

Monroe, almost sheepishly, continued, "Can we get back to the part where Juliette is alive?"

Juliette bared her teeth and eyed them all, hard-faced. Then she ducked her head, and for a moment looked so very _Juliette_ , Nick's heart felt like it was breaking all over again.

"Hi, guys?" she said, miming a small wave.

"Dude." Monroe's throat worked, several times. "We had the funeral and everything. How is this even possible?"

But it was Rosalee who asked the real question. "How long has this been going on?"

Nick grimaced. "I found out Sunday."

"When you came to the spice shop?" Rosalee's eyes had gone calculating.

"Yeah. I was ... I didn't know what to do. Sorry I worried you guys."

"So what happened?" Hank threw in, clearly not interested in apologies now.

Matter-of-fact. He could do that.

"Remember Chavez?" Nick asked. "The FBI agent who investigated the captain's shooting? The one who turned out to be a Steinadler, and who kidnapped Trubel?"

At least things with Trubel seemed to be cautiously okay now. She was still covering for him, and she'd seemed guiltily eager to help him out when they'd talked briefly, the night before and this morning.

"Sure. What's she got to do with anything?" Monroe asked.

"She ..." Nick grimaced again. "Somehow she got to Trubel after all, and when Trubel shot Juliette ..." He looked away, the memory of that night still too painful. Even with Juliette right here, alive and well and not even an enemy any more, it was too much.

"Long story short," Renard took over smoothly, "she faked Juliette's death and took her prisoner. Nick discovered this by following Trubel. We broke Juliette out Monday night." It was only Wednesday now.

Glad to be able to leave some of the explanations to Renard, Nick watched as Monroe, Rosalee and Hank digested the news. Hank's eyes went back and forth between Nick and Renard a few times.

Nick refused to twist uncomfortably under their eyes as they realized he'd turned to Renard instead of them. He couldn't undo that choice now, and anyway, it had worked out, hadn't it?

They'd have needed Renard anyway, he told himself. None of them had known how to reach out to Juliette, by the end. Somehow, Renard did. Nick still wasn't sure how or why.

"It happened too fast, I wasn't ..." He shrugged. "Sorry, guys." Nick's discomfort with the situation was taking control. "Look, it's done now," he said, voice tight and strained. "Can we talk about that later if we absolutely have to?"

Monroe, Rosalee and Hank looked at each other and shrugged.

Monroe turned to Juliette. "And you're ... okay?" The pause before the last word was just a moment too long to be merely rhetorical. He looked deeply uncomfortable.

Juliette gave him a cold stare. Then she was in his face, wogeing, snarling at him, her dark hair flying.

Monroe jumped back, for a moment nothing but terror in his eyes. Then he caught himself, braced his spine and forced himself to meet her, wogeing in turn.

Nick had just barely managed to suppress a visible flinch himself.

"Well, look at you," Juliette said darkly. "No, I'm not _okay_ , if by okay you mean, am I who I used to be. No one's taking this from me. Not Nick, not Rosalee, not Chavez, not _anyone_."

Monroe twitched, eyes flickering to Nick, then back to Juliette. "I just meant ... are you okay?" he said, ducking his head.

Juliette's face shifted and reformed itself into her human self. She glared at Monroe, and Monroe twitched again.

"I mean, you're here, and he's here, and we're all here," he rambled, "so, no hard feelings, okay? I mean, you're not fighting any more, obviously, so ... Are you okay? Just asking," he ended, awkwardly.

Something complicated flickered over Juliette's face. Nick couldn't read it at all.

"To hell with the lot of you," she said harshly, and turned toward the stairs, her heels - oh dear, she'd worn heels in the house, for this meeting - clicking loudly on the steps.

Monroe turned around, looking at the remaining assembly. "Um." He lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. "Was it something I said?"

Upstairs, a door slammed.

~*~

The meeting broke up quickly after that, once Renard had brought the others up to speed on the details of what had happened. Nick had hoped to talk more about Chavez - they did have a strategy to develop and decisions to make, after all - but no one seemed to be in the mood.

"You have to give us some time to process this, man," Hank said, gesturing vaguely at Nick, at Renard, at the upstairs where Juliette was.

"Yeah, dude," Monroe added, eyes not quite meeting Nick's, "it's kinda a lot, you know?"

And Rosalee explained, too reasonably, her composure belying the sharpness underneath, "Please don't throw something like this at us and expect us to be back to business as usual the next minute."

Nick nodded, suppressing a grimace. _Renard would have been_ , he thought rebelliously.

And felt guilty for the thought.


	9. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This would have been up earlier, but AO3 kept giving me errors. Here's hoping the archive will return to normal soon!

A sharp knock rapped against the door, startling Juliette out of her thoughts. It had gone quiet downstairs a while ago. What did Sean want from her now? It didn't matter.

The knock came again; she ignored it again.

"Juliette," Sean's voice came through the door, "I'm coming in." The doorknob turned.

Damn. She should have locked the door.

Sean pushed the door open wide, standing haloed by the brightness of the corridor. Light from the door fell around him into the darkened room.

"Go away." Juliette turned her head away, remaining where she was sitting on her bed, leaning against the headboard. Maybe she should throw him out. But even lifting her hand seemed too much effort just now.

Sean didn't leave. Instead, he came inside, undeterred, stepping carefully around the newspaper she'd thrown off the bed and onto the floor earlier, stopping next to her bed. "Juliette," he said again in his most neutral voice, looking down at her.

"What," she snarled eventually, face turned away.

"I could say that." Then, too gently, "It didn't go badly."

"Didn't it?" But of course he couldn't see it. He'd gotten what he'd wanted, hadn't he? He and Nick both.

 _Sean and Nick. Nick and Sean._ She still couldn't wrap her mind around that.

Sean sat down on the bed next to her. Why was he being so attentive? He hadn't been anything like this, last time. It stung.

"It was Monroe, wasn't it." Not a question - and he'd seen it, after all. Seen and understood, too perceptive by far. How did he do that?

Juliette's head turned, reluctantly meeting his eyes, but she couldn't read his face. Why did it even matter what he was thinking?

"Monroe!" She grimaced. "Even Monroe. He's a Blutbad, for goodness' sake. And even he flinches away from me."

"He's been through quite a bit," Sean reminded her calmly. "You do remember the Wesenrein? And if I'm not mistaken, you did make Nick shoot at him." Unspoken, _What did you expect, startling him like that?_

"Yes, but ..." Juliette wrapped her arms tighter around herself. She'd wanted to punish them all, that day, for trying to force a Zaubertrank on her, for trying to take away who she'd become, for trying to force her back into the mould of the person she'd been before she'd outgrown herself. For not being on _her_ side after all. "He hates me now, fine," she said, blackly. "But he's a Blutbad. He should have been _angry_." She chewed on her lower lip. "He should have gone after me, not ... this."

Anger and hatred she could take. Hurt, yes, even that. But fear? That came too close to Nick's visceral terror at the very sight of her, and she couldn't -

She just couldn't.

Just the sight of that damned flinch made her want to smash something.

"Mm. But you're a Hexenbiest." Sean's lips quirked into a small smile. "My mother found it very amusing."

"What?" Juliette blinked, trying to follow the abrupt turn in the conversation.

"People do fear us, Juliette," he said, not entirely patiently. "Hexenbiests even more than Zauberbiests. Reputation means something, and let's not forget you worked quite hard to reinforce that reputation."

Sean looked too amused. Was he laughing at her? "It's not funny," she snapped.

"Isn't it, though?" The corner of his lip turned up. "The big bad Blutbad afraid of you."

Unwilling, she found the corner of her mouth twitch. It was, a little, in theory.

Monroe, though. She hadn't wanted ... _that_. Juliette made a face. "What if I don't have the stomach for it?"

"You had the stomach for quite a bit worse," Sean retorted, his tone finally growing sharp. "These people care for you. If you don't want that, just keep going as you have been. Otherwise? Accept you have things to make up for. Deal with it."

She turned away again. "As if I had any real choice."

"There's always a choice. Choosing between a host of bad options is still a choice."

Her eyes snapped to his face again. That had sounded altogether too bitter, too personal. For a long moment she felt frozen in place, unsure how to react. Then she bit her lip. "I don't care," she whispered, a desperate confession. "I remember what it was like at the start, how worried I was, how much I wanted ... But I don't _care_ , and I don't think I can get that back. I don't want it back."

Sean snorted. "You care plenty," he said. "Not the way you used to, no - but not less, never fool yourself about that."

Juliette shivered. Judgment spoken.

"It never stops," she murmured quietly into the space between them. "It's always rushing through me, wanting to spring loose. The only thing that'll quiet it is ..." She stabbed her finger in the direction of the nightstand, and the empty water glass on it fell apart in splinters. "Breaking things," she said bitterly, no satisfaction in it now.

Sean leaned away, putting more distance between them. "Really, Juliette?" he said, exasperated. She ducked her head, smirking a little. "You're going to replace that."

"I don't have any money right now," she said blandly.

"And you're going to clean that up," Sean continued, as if she hadn't spoken.

"Aw, you're no fun." She pouted; Sean merely looked at her, grimly.

Rolling her eyes, Juliette swept her hand through the air and telekinetically brushed the broken glass into the trashcan in the corner. "There, all tidied up. Happy now?"

Sean said nothing, but his eyes remained dark and hard. Under the weight of his gaze, Juliette felt herself shrinking into herself. What the hell was she doing? She curled in on herself. "Sorry. I didn't mean to break your stuff. It's just hard." Meaningless words; even she knew that.

"I'm not surprised," Sean said quietly, after a moment, suddenly sounding pensive rather than angry. "It's hard enough for us when we come into our own, and we're born to it."

Juliette bit her lip. "That's right, you're not born with powers, are you? How does that even work?"

"It generally happens during puberty." She'd known that, of course. "It can be a difficult transition."

Juliette swallowed. _Wait a minute._ "Is that what's been happening to me?"

He startled, following her train of thought. "Maybe." His head tilted to the side in thought. "On a much larger scale."

She grimaced. "That might have been helpful a few months ago, you know."

An apologetic smile. "I hadn't thought about it that way before." Then he reached out, hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. "And as for the other," he continued, "you like being a Hexenbiest, don't you?

She jerked back, snarling at him. "You know that!" She'd thrown it in his face, in everyone's face, often enough. Insistent enough.

He merely nodded. "People will fear you. Never mind what you do or don't actually do. You want to be a Hexenbiest; this is what comes with it." A considering tilt of the head. "Do you think Nick enjoys seeing innocent Wesen cringe away from him?"

Juliette flinched. Nick again. Why did it always come back to Nick? "I'm not him," she forced out, harshly.

"You're not as different as you like to think."

"Well, you would know!" He'd slept with Nick. Nick had slept with him. Juliette's mind kept stumbling over that, stunned more than jealous.

It didn't seem to make her angry with Sean, somehow - only Nick, for being at ease with a Zauberbiest while flinching from her. But not Sean, and that was the most baffling part of all.

"Yes," he said simply, "I would." And he stood, looking down at her with shadowed eyes for a moment longer, then moved toward the door. "Make up your mind, Juliette," he told her, not looking back.

With a quiet _click_ , he pulled the door closed behind him, and she was left alone again in the darkness of the room.

~*~

Juliette's mind was whirling. Her earlier upset over Monroe's terrified reaction seemed very far, and very small now. Damn Sean for doing that to her.

She _loved_ being a Hexenbiest, damn it! Her abilities, her powers - she loved the feel of them, the confidence that came with them, the knowledge that she was on top of the food chain for once. She loved the sensation of unleashing something pent up inside, of letting it slam out of her, a force of nature, unstoppable and wild. Before, as a human, so much had been locked up under her skin. Now, it could burst free, and she loved the glorious, satisfying release of it. If people were afraid of her, what did she care? Why should it matter?

Except that it did.

Juliette's fingers clenched, convulsively, crumpling the sheets she was sitting on. What did she want - what had she wanted from her supposed friends? Admiration? Pride? Yeah, right.

Kenneth had admired her power; the King had admired her woge. But that hadn't been what she'd wanted, either. Besides, they'd been looking to use her for their own purposes, even if she hadn't seen it clearly then.

What did she want? Sean made it sound so easy. As if they'd just forgive her, if only ...

Juliette winced. No. Not likely to happen.

 _Except for Sean._ The thought inserted itself into her head, inescapable. Sean was trying to help, really trying. The only one.

Nick had come for her, yes, but he still couldn't look at her properly. Besides ... she'd killed his mother, or might as well have, for all the difference it made. You couldn't forgive something like that. Nick wouldn't.

Nick shouldn't.

Oh God. She'd actually thrown Kelly's death in his face, yesterday. _That was low, Juliette._ That he hadn't tried to hit her ...

He would have, probably, if not for Sean. She might have deserved it, but she'd have struck back nonetheless. One dead Grimm. One dead Hexenbiest. Maybe it would have been for the better.

Sean, though.

Juliette was on her feet and at Sean's door almost before she'd made up her mind. She hesitated briefly, hand on the doorknob, then pushed inside.

Sean jerked around. His shirt was unbuttoned, falling open at the front. Behind him, the sliding door to the walk-in closet was open. He'd been about to change.

"What now, Juliette?" he said, exasperated.

"Hey." She ducked her head a little. "I wanted to say ..." She stepped closer, reached out for his shoulder. "Sorry," she breathed.

She hadn't known she was going to say that until it had come out of her mouth. Now she couldn't take it back.

Sean was standing stiffly. If he'd been able to, would he have retreated out of her way? But she had him cornered against the edge of the sliding door and a tidy row of clothes.

What now? Her mind was reeling. She had to do something.

Her hand closed on his shoulder, her thumb brushing over his collarbone. The wince was minuscule, but there. "I'm being difficult, I know," she whispered. "Let me make it up to you." And she leaned forward, inward, until her breasts were brushing against his naked chest.

Sean's hands clamped painfully over her shoulders for a brief moment. But instead of reeling her in, he pushed her away. "No," he said. "Wasn't I clear enough, last time? We're not doing this again, Juliette."

"I don't know what you mean," she said, her best faked innocence, eyes widened a little and head tilted at him quizzically. "I just wanted to say sorry. Is that so wrong?" It wasn't a very good impression, and even she knew it.

Teeth clenched, eyes narrowed, he searched her face. His hands remained on her shoulders, holding her at arm's length. "Why are you doing this?"

Juliette ripped herself away. Unforgivably, she felt her lip quiver. "You're the only one who still likes me." It came out small, broken, pathetic, and she wished she'd swallowed down the words before they'd formed.

Sean's mouth opened a fraction, in time to a brief, startled blink. "Juliette," he said after a moment, and the gentleness in his voice hurt, "that's patently not true."

She snarled, throwing up her hands, pacing along his bed. "No - I know, Nick still has _feelings_ ," she mocked. "Everyone still has feelings, don't they? But not for me." Turning back to Sean, she bared her teeth, almost wishing she could frighten him with her woge, like everyone else. "Not for _me_ ," she spat, "just for the Juliette they remember." Her teeth worried her lower lip for a moment. "No, I ... I don't know. Maybe they do care, after a fashion. But they don't _like_ me any more, after everything. I deserve it, maybe, but ..." A desperate shake of the head. "Not one of them. Except you."

Sean's eyes narrowed, taking on a calculating look. She braced herself. "I still like Adalind, too," he said, too casually. "Despite everything."

Juliette reeled back from the verbal slap. "How dare you!" Her fury burst out, lashing out at him, and a telekinetic blow sent him violently against the edge of the sliding door, then stumbling back into the neat row of clothes hangers filled with expensive clothes.

He deserved worse for that comparison, far worse. She wanted to break every bone in his body for that. _Let me count them, one by one._

The thought startled her out of her explosion, and she froze, just as Sean caught himself against the wardrobe rail. Juliette stared at him, eyes wide. That hadn't been how she'd meant things to go, she thought faintly.

Sean shook himself and stepped forward, eyes dark. There was no gentleness in them now, nor even calculation. "Me?" he snarled. "How dare _I_?" His hands closed around her upper arms and slammed her against a segment of sliding door. " _You_ sided with Kenneth. No, Juliette, how dare _you_?"

She'd finally made him lose his patience, his damned self-control. _Congratulations, Juliette._ If she'd wanted a fight, here it was.

But all she felt was sick to her stomach.

"You know you can't trust her," she said eventually, not resisting his harsh grip, deflecting instead. "She's just biding her time."

Sean abruptly let go of her with a final snarl, then stepped back, wrestling himself under control, tension clear in every line of his body.

"Who said anything about trust?" he said after a moment, and his anger seemed to drain away, replaced with something that almost looked like pity. She wanted to wipe it off his face, but her eyes were glued to him, and she couldn't seem to stop taking in every minuscule reaction, as if somehow, if only she looked long enough, she might find something she wanted to see. "Trust has nothing to do with anything. I'm fond of her, but ..." He shrugged.

Juliette stared, and forgot to be offended for a moment as realization hit. "You don't trust anyone, do you? Except maybe Nick. Or do you, even him?" She shook her head, something in her chest heavy and aching. "How do you live like that?"

Sean shrugged again. "You learn to take your pleasures where you can."

Juliette's fingers twitched. Shockingly, for the first time in a long time, she found herself wanting to reach out, to tell him there was better than that.

Was there, though? _As if._

But the urge to comfort was there, strange and unfamiliar. Once, she might have known what to do with it, Juliette thought bitterly, but not any more. She forced it down. She was angry at him, she reminded herself. That offensive comparison to Adalind ...

It was hard to maintain the anger. When had it become an effort?

It was the tired part of her that asked, quietly, "Even when everything hurts?"

"Yes," Sean said simply.

Juliette shifted closer again, drawn almost magnetically by something she didn't quite recognize. She lifted her hand towards him, and when he didn't flinch or move away, she set her palm against the side of his face, running it down, from temple to chin. "Does this hurt?" she croaked, her voice failing her.

"Yes," Sean said, an admission like the cut of a knife.

They'd exchanged these words before, under different circumstances. _Good_ , she'd said the last time. Everything had hurt, then; it had been the only thing that still made sense. Perhaps that was why she'd become so good at spreading it around.

Everything still hurt, but it had stopped making sense, had stopped doing anything but _hurt_ , that day at the house, fighting Nick, hoping for an end to all of it.

She wanted it to stop.

"Me too," she whispered. "But I don't want it to. I don't want us to hurt."

 _Make it hurt_ , she'd said the last time, and they'd hurt each other. It had been good, and entirely wrong; she'd known it even then. No doubt he had, too.

Sean's eyes were shrouded. She had no idea what he was thinking.

"It doesn't have to be like that, does it?" she asked, not knowing where the question had come from.

Her palm was still curled around his chin, gentle in a way she hadn't touched anyone, anything, in a long time. Offering tenderness was hard, but she _wanted_ it, suddenly and achingly; she wanted to remember how it felt.

And damn it, she wanted to give him better than hurt, too. If she still had it in her to give a thing like that.

His arm went around her back, not pulling her closer, but holding her all the same. She bent her head forward, and with a small, wistful smile, he returned the gesture. Touching foreheads, they stood still for an interminable time, Juliette's stomach churning and her instincts warring at the back of her brain.

Eventually she realized he wasn't going to break the stalemate. It had to be her. Juliette lifted her head, then leaned forward, angling her chin. Slowly, slowly, giving him every chance to pull away. He didn't.

He didn't, and she brushed her lips against his with a tenderness she'd never offered him before. Not when they'd been cursed with lust and obsession, not when everything in her had been raging, a new Hexenbiest angry at the world.

She was still angry at the world. Part of her still wanted to hurt him. And it would be so easy, almost too easy, now. But she wasn't quite so new, and she wanted ... she wanted ...

The kiss ended, and they looked at each other, both lost, neither knowing what to do.

"That was good," Juliette said, a little desperately. "That was good, wasn't it? Nothing's really been, not since ..." She bit her lip again, eyes shifting away.

"Better," he said, and the kindness was back in his voice, scorching her, but she wanted it anyway, moth to a flame. He sat down on the bed, pulling her down beside her, arm around her back.

Juliette leaned against him. Her hand went under his shirt, hesitant at first, then, when he didn't protest, more surely. She brushed her lips against his chest, trailed small kisses along the lines of his pecs. His hand cupped her breast, thumb rubbing over her nipple.

She looked up at him; he looked down.

"I want you," she said desperately, urgently. "Please, I need you. I can't do this alone - I can't ..." Her voice caught at the back of her throat, and she swallowed convulsively.

Sean's eyes were dark and intent, entirely focused on her. For a long, too long moment he held himself still, and they were suspended in between while he made a decision. Then, "All right," he said, quietly, "all right," and his hands were framing her face, pulling her in.

Mouths wet and open against each other, bodies surging. Juliette clutched at him, fingers clenching in the fabric of his shirt, pulling it off. He slid his hands under her blouse, pulled it over her head, not bothering with the buttons, then unhooked her bra.

Skin to skin. _Yes._ That felt good; that felt right. She climbed onto his lap, pushed his shoulders down, straddling him. He was already hard against her, his erection pressing against her through their pants. She threw back her head and moaned, rocking against him. But that wasn't enough.

Quick, rushed, urgent - clothes flew away, and they were back against each other fast as they could, skin craving skin. More, more - she rose above him, hand wrapping around his cock, guiding it -

"Wait," Sean said, voice rough and heavy, panting harshly under her, and jerked his head in the direction of the nightstand.

Juliette blinked, but then caught on, scrambling to dig a condom from his drawer. But then she was straddling him again, and finally, finally, sinking down on him.

Sean's lips were parted, his eyes half-lidded as he looked up at her. He was gorgeous.

But too far away. They weren't even touching properly, except for where they were joined, except for his hands on her hips. Impulsively Juliette put her fingers over his, pulling his hands away, holding them in hers. He let her, looking at her in bemusement.

"Not like this," she said, a little breathlessly, and tugged at his hands. "Come on, sit up."

With a little effort they managed it without dislodging him from inside her. Then she was in his lap, and their arms were around each other, and that was better, much better. They rocked against each other, not frantic and urgent but almost gentle, almost tender. Juliette moaned, her body clenching around him, and then it burst out from within, spiking through every nerve ending, electric and inescapable: her orgasm - and her woge.

Sean didn't cringe. He didn't flinch back.

His arms remained around her, mouth open against her neck, as if the body he was holding hadn't changed into something that looked more dead than alive, something dragged from a bog, bone and leathery skin. As if the soft, human warmth around his cock hadn't turned into something else.

He rocked into her again, then again, until, with a half-suppressed, strangled sound, he spilled himself.

They came apart a little then, but still he wasn't pulling away. Juliette felt frozen, stuck in her woge in the last aftershocks of her orgasm. Sean's hand brushed over her side, sliding between them. And then his thumb found her clit - a hard, leathery nub in this body, but no less sensitive - and the shock and the sudden stimulation conspired, sending a second wave crashing down over her. Juliette fell back into the pillows, breathing harshly, eyes clenched shut, and blood rushing in her ears as he, finally, pulled away.

When her chest stopped heaving, when the sweat had begun to dry on her skin and the wetness between her thighs had grown cool, it hit her. Sean was stretched out next to her, but they weren't touching any more.

Juliette's limbs, her muscles, all heavy and sinking into the mattress a moment ago, were wound tight as a spring within an instant. Abruptly she pushed herself up on her elbows and forced herself to look at him. His eyes were already on her, but the heat was gone from them. There was a distance behind them, as if he were watching from very far away.

This had been a mistake.

Almost against her will, her hand shot forward, stopping just short of touching him. She didn't snatch it back; that would have been telling.

She'd wanted this; now she'd had it. Was that enough?

No. _No._

But it had been good - reaching out, making him feel good, giving as well as taking. Slowly, deliberately, she put her hand on his chest, and tried a smile.

Sean's eyebrows went up, but he didn't turn away. "Did you get what you wanted?" he asked.

Juliette flinched. She deserved that. But of course he thought it had been just - She let out a sound half laugh, half sob and curled herself against him, hoping he wouldn't see it as more of the same. Knowing he would.

"I don't know what I want any more," she admitted quietly.

Sean's body was still against her at first; then he snorted a little and shifted, angling himself towards her, arm going around her back. "You'll work it out," he said, lips against her hair.

Juliette closed her eyes again and let herself melt into his warmth, let herself be soothed by it. His hand was making small circular movements on her back.

"It helps," she said eventually, feeling almost relaxed. Almost. "This helps. It didn't last time; why does it now?"

Then, sleeping with him hadn't felt like this. Then, there had been no comfort, for either of them. Had either of them even tried to reach out? She no longer knew. Either way, they'd failed to meet each other.

"You didn't want it to, last time." Sean's tone was matter-of-fact, not at all an accusation. Somehow, that was worse.

Juliette flinched in his arms. For a moment, she'd let herself forget about everything that had come after. Everything she'd done, every step she'd taken that had made sense at the time.

At the end of that path, at the edge of a cliff, she'd tried the final jump, and had found herself caught instead, held in a trap. And rescued by the very people she'd done her best to pull over that cliff with her.

What could she say, now? She'd been so angry. She was still angry.

Juliette swallowed harshly, and pulled away a little, enough to be able to look him in the face. Slowly, deliberately, pointedly, she said, "I'm never going to forgive Adalind."

She could feel Sean's shrug. "No one says you should." A brief hesitation, then: "You see, that's not the problem. The problem with Adalind is the same problem as with you - we're none of us sure you won't do it again."

Juliette froze. Again. It was always this, as if she were anything like - as if - She felt her power tingle in her fingertips, itching to release, to throw him away from her, and this time, not stop at that. She didn't. For a long moment she simply stared at him. Her and Adalind. Adalind and her. He kept coming back to that.

Somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, Sean's eyes had hardened. "I'm very fond of you." His voice was almost flippant. Cruel.

Deliberately cruel, echoing what he'd said about Adalind earlier.

 _Fond_ of her, like he was fond of _Adalind_.

It burned in her chest, a seething, bubbling knot. She _hated_ him. "I'm nothing like Adalind." Dark, low, and vicious. On the left nightstand, a lamp, a watch and a set of cufflinks vibrated. On the right, a folded-up newspaper shook itself over the edge, tumbling to the floor. Any time now, the glass of the lampshade would burst.

That would be a little bit satisfying, at least.

Sean merely looked at her and, pointedly, said nothing.

Juliette stared at him, vibrating under her skin much like the glass did, feeling as close to bursting. No. She wasn't like Adalind; she hadn't ... she hadn't ...

Except that she _had_ , hadn't she? She'd betrayed everyone, joined their enemies, worked with Sean's family against him, helped Kenneth murder Nick's mother, helped Sean's father get his hands on Diana. Tried to make Nick kill Monroe. Tried to kill Nick.

Slept with Kenneth where Nick would find the evidence, in the very bed Adalind had raped him in, just to hurt him.

Adalind had lashed out at everyone she held responsible for her misfortune, caring nothing for the collateral damage. Had Juliette done any less?

Her stomach convulsed, and her fingers dug into Sean's arms, probably leaving bruises. No. _No._

And like Adalind, now she was stuck, relying on the very people she'd wronged. She and Adalind were, horrifyingly, in the same position. Never mind that Adalind didn't deserve any kind of chance, that she'd inevitably betray all of them again - what did _Juliette_ deserve?

No better. No better at all.

Juliette's insides had clenched so tight it felt like she was breaking in half.

She drew a shivery breath, and another, her whole body trembling. Her telekinesis had stopped shaking the room; now the shaking was only under her own skin. She felt her eyes water, her half-open lips shake, her teeth clattering against each other.

She'd smashed everything she'd had to splinters; she could hardly complain if they were cutting into her skin.

Juliette made herself meet Sean's eyes. He was regarding her calmly, eyes hooded. He'd been cruel, yes. But she'd deserved the cruelty.

"I can't come back from this," she whispered. "Can I?" Hating herself for even asking.

Sean blinked, and his lip curled for a moment in an unreadable, half-second expression. "Only if you want to."

She blinked; then she realized. A bitter huff; yes, she knew what he was talking about. Of course. It was always going to be that, wasn't it? "If I take that potion," she said, hating the way her voice caught on the word. Hadn't she always known it would come back to this?

At the beginning, she'd have jumped at the chance. Now? She'd changed too much. She couldn't go back, couldn't un-become what she'd become. Her powers had become part of her. But that didn't matter, did it? There was no other way.

The pause had been long when Sean's voice startled her out of her thoughts. "No," he said simply.

Juliette gaped. "What?"

He offered her a wry smile. "Don't you see? It's just a crutch. Even for Adalind, it's not really a safeguard." He shrugged slightly. "Don't you remember? What Adalind did to you and me - the amnesia, the obsession - she did all of that without her powers." His eyes narrowed, darkening, and his gaze drilled into her. "You don't need to be a Hexenbiest to become a monster. Humans do it all the time."

She clenched her eyes, avoiding his.

"Look at me," Sean demanded. After a moment she did; his eyes were still on her with that heavy, piercing look. "It's up to you, Juliette. Only you can decide who you want to be." Something like pity washed over his face. "And as for your friends - they do still care for you, every one." He hesitated, as if he was just deciding whether to say something more, then fell silent.

Juliette opened her mouth, but there were no words. She clenched her eyes tight against the pressure building up behind them, and this time he let her.

Then Sean's voice came again, after all. "Including me."

Her eyes flew open, and she drew in a sudden, startled breath. Sean looked at her, almost defiant. She blinked water out of her eyes. Her lips quivered, she had to snuffle, and then tears were running down her face, hot and angry and desperate.

Helplessly she clutched at Sean's shoulders. He didn't push her away. For a long moment she thought he'd simply hold still, sit there and _watch_ , and her cheeks burned with shame even as she burrowed her face in the crook of his neck, even as her tears ran down his chest. Then his arms came up around her and he held her close, his body curling protectively around her, and oh. Oh.

_Yes. This._

~*~

The sound of a cell phone ringing startled Juliette out of an almost-doze. Not her own phone; that was still in her room. She opened her eyes and watched Sean bend over the side of the bed and dig out his phone from his pocket.

He looked at the display, and the sleepy softness vanished from his face. "Yes?"

Juliette propped herself up on an elbow, watching Sean's face and listening to his side of the conversation. It consisted of very few words - "Now?" and "Understood," and "Yes, of course," and, "Leave that to me." His voice was tight, and his eyes were on her again, looking at her like a lab tech looked at his specimens. She wouldn't let herself squirm.

When he put his phone away, his eyes remained on her, dark and distant.

"Sean?" she asked, sitting up after all. He was starting to worry her. "Did something happen?"

"Not quite," was the answer. More of the silent examination followed.

Juliette bit her lips under his scrutiny. Something clearly _had_ happened, but he wasn't willing to say. She hated the way he could simply switch gears, pull himself away as if they'd never connected at all.

What had they done? What had she done?

She could see the moment he decided. His face turned even harder, and he stood up from the bed, his back to her. "Something's about to happen," he said, then turned around, his gaze pinning her. "Adalind's gone into labor."

Juliette froze. Her throat had closed up. The tension in her gut was back with a vengeance, and it would have felt so good to smash something, to lash out at something, someone, anyone. She didn't.

Eventually Sean turned away again and went into the bathroom. Juliette could hear the shower start up. She simply sat and listened; it was all she could do. He hadn't had to tell her, had hesitated before - but he'd done it all the same. He _knew_ how she felt about Adalind, what she'd tried to do ... and he'd told her anyway. Not because he didn't think or care about the consequences, but because he did.

He was giving her a chance. She had no idea what to do with that.

The thought went round and round in her brain, endlessly, going nowhere, until Sean came back out of the shower, a towel slung around his hips. He started pulling out fresh clothes.

Juliette swallowed, trying to clear out the obstruction in her throat. "Are you ..." He looked over his shoulder, and she drew up her shoulders, pulled her arms around her legs, but tried to meet his eyes, as calmly as she could. "Are you going there?" she managed.

He only nodded, eyes shadowed, and returned to the wardrobe.

"I want to come," she said, and then wished she could bite back the words. There could only be one answer to that, after all. He didn't have reason to trust her, and he'd already offered more than she'd had any right to, telling her, not keeping it from her. And what would she even do, with Adalind? Of course he wouldn't let her anywhere close, not if he had a choice.

Maybe if she let him turn her down -

Sean's turned around again, lavender shirt in hand. His eyebrows had gone up. "I'm not sure that's a good idea," he said, carefully noncommittal, shrugging on the fresh shirt, buttoning it up.

His answer knocked her sideways. That hadn't been a no.

He knew he couldn't stop her if she insisted on going. But that wouldn't make him agree to take her - not him. She knew him better than that.

He'd thrown Adalind in her face several times, this evening. Deliberately, all of it. That had been a test. Was this too?

 _Adalind_ was her test. It was a bitter thought. Adalind deserved nothing. Juliette wanted her dead and gone. But whether Adalind deserved it or not, if Juliette wanted Sean's trust, anyone's trust, Adalind was the key.

The question was - did she?

"I won't kill her," she promised hoarsely, not even knowing if she meant it, hating the pleading that had crept into her voice.

After a long, considering moment, Sean nodded.


	10. Chapter 9

It was a long, silent car ride to the hospital. Juliette's hands were clenched tight around the handgrip in the door and the edge of her seat. _What am I doing? What am I going to do?_

Sean's eyes were focused on the road, and he didn't speak to her at all until they'd parked and walked up to the entrance. Then he gripped her arm and pulled her aside. "Listen," he said, almost under his breath. "You _cannot_ start anything in there, do you understand me?"

Of course she could; it would be easy, almost too easy. But that wasn't what he meant. If she did, if she took this chance and crushed it into splinters like she'd crushed everything else, there would not be another one.

"I know that," she scoffed. "How stupid do you think I am?" As if she didn't understand exactly what was at stake here. "It's not that easy," she admitted after a moment, not sure if that would condemn her. It wouldn't buy her sympathy, no matter how much she craved it.

Sean had attempted to counsel her, had comforted her. He'd let her touch him, had kissed her and made love to her, and in the end, none of that had mattered. He'd wanted her to face the truth, and he'd slammed it into her face, repeatedly, until she could no longer refuse to see. The sex ... had that been his way of trying to soften the blow?

Had he even wanted it, for himself? 

No, she couldn't let herself think that. Sean had admitted to caring for her, a confession flung at her like a challenge. That had been real. If he didn't dare believe she would reciprocate, she could hardly blame him.

Sean regarded her calmly. His grip on her arm loosened. "You can still change your mind," he told her. "You don't have to go in there." He pulled his car keys out of his pocket with his free hand, holding them up between them. "If you want to go back, take my car. But if you do go in ..." He shrugged.

If she did, this was it. Her test.

Juliette wanted to sneer. She wanted to tell him where he could stuff his oh-so-generous offer. She wanted to cling to him. Her heart clenching, she did none of the above. "I can do it," she said, repressively. If not now, when?

Sean examined her face closely. Eventually he put his keys away again. "Let's go."

~*~

They rode the elevator in silence. When the doors slid open with a quiet _ping_ , Sean looked down at her with hooded eyes. Then he held out his arm to her.

She should have scoffed at the condescension. Instead, she took the offer gladly, her arm too tight around his, holding on for dear life as they walked down the corridor, through a set of swing doors and into a waiting area with a group of low tables.

Everyone was there already - everyone. Nick, leaning against the back ofa padded waiting-room chair; Rosalee and Hank, sitting; Monroe, turning around from a coffee machine, two plastic cups in his hands; Trubel, startling away from the wall. Even Bud, next to Hank, caught mid-gesture. They'd all stopped in their tracks, frozen as soon as they saw her.

Nick caught himself first, pushing forward, stepping in front of them.

"Juliette," he growled, looking dangerous and intent and nothing like the cute uniformed police officer she'd asked on a date, all these years ago. "What are you doing here?" Then to Sean, "What is she doing here?"

She raised her chin. "Nick," she said, coolly.

He glared at her, then at Sean, furiously. Then something in his face shifted, and his throat worked. "Juliette, please," he said quietly, and she was caught between fury at his unspoken accusations and a sudden, overwhelming pity.

Juliette tried a half-hearted smile, and something in her clenched when his eyes seemed to fix on it with desperate intensity. She couldn't find any words.

"How is she?" Sean asked calmly, smoothly stepping into the conversational breach.

Nick winced and threw a look over his shoulders at the closed door on the other side of the waiting area. His shoulders tensed even further, even before his eyes flickered back to Juliette. "She can't make up her mind if she wants me in there or not," he said eventually, looking down at the floor.

Half glad, half disappointed, Juliette judged. He didn't know what he wanted. That was ... almost a relief to see.

"Juliette," Nick said again, her name like a plea. It hurt to hear, and she deliberately turned away from him, looking at the others.

Trubel's eyes, wide and terrified. Bud's mouth working silently. Rosalee, looking distant and thoughtful. Monroe, frozen in place. Hank, whispering a quick, quiet explanation to Bud and Wu beside him. It was too much. She never should have come. She'd been thinking about Adalind, not ... this. She couldn't do this.

_You like being a Hexenbiest, don't you? This is what comes with it._

_You worked quite hard to reinforce that reputation._

Steeling herself, she stepped away from Sean and Nick, in Trubel's direction. What the little Grimm bitch had done to her deserved punishment. But ...

She came to a halt in front of the girl.

Trubel's back was against the wall. Her squared shoulders, her fighter's stance did nothing to cover for the fear in her eyes. She stood, hands clenched, waiting for the inevitable, like someone bracing for a blow.

Juliette could do one better.

"You're just a stupid kid," she said, her best poisonous disdain. "You're not even worth hating, Trubel. You're _nothing_." And she turned on her heel, striding away without another look. The last thing she saw, out of the corner of her eye, was the quiver of Trubel's lip.

Blood rushed in Juliette's ears as she walked around the rows of padded chairs toward the coffee machine. She'd done it. Cruel, maybe - oh, who was she kidding? That had been beyond harsh, knowing Trubel's vulnerable spots as she did. But she'd left it at that, hadn't lashed out with anything worse than words.

Hadn't really wanted to, for all the fury she'd wanted to unleash at Trubel while she'd been stuck in that cage.

She'd done it.

Bud's eyes were wide as she walked past, blinking almost comically.

"Um," Monroe said when she came up to him. "Hi, Juliette. We didn't know you'd ..." He trailed off.

Juliette glared at him, then tried to soften her gaze. She hadn't meant to _frighten_ him, damn it, and it had given her no satisfaction. She'd wanted anger, wanted hatred - anything she could rage against. He hadn't given it to her.

"Coffee? It's pretty bad," Monroe continued. "But, you know, it's late, caffeine and all that."

She looked at her watch. It wasn't even quite ten p.m. yet.

With difficulty, Juliette swallowed the blatant attempt to placate her. "Sure, why not," she said, and let him hand her one of the plastic cups he'd been holding. "Thanks, Monroe."

Everyone was watching her.

Well, everyone except Nick, who seemed to be having trouble deciding whether he wanted to glare at her or at Sean, throwing furious, confused, pleading looks at both of them in turn.

She couldn't deal with that now.

Juliette took a deep breath and focused on Monroe. "So, how _are_ things going?" she asked, knowing it came out fake. _Fake it until you make it, Juliette._ What else was there?

Monroe had gotten another cup of coffee from the machine in replacement for the one he'd given her, and he held both cups awkwardly. "Um. Did you mean ..." He gestured with his head toward the closed doors where, presumably, Adalind was.

At least Nick wasn't in there with her.

"No, I meant the state of the refugee crisis in Europe. Of course I meant her, Monroe!"

He looked at her dubiously, then apparently decided to take her question at face value. "Seems like it's going pretty fast," he told her. "Well, she didn't tell Nick she was having contractions until her water broke. Seems she doesn't like hospitals for some reason."

Juliette blinked, and tried to wrap her mind around Adalind as someone who cared about such things. The Hexenbiest - _other_ Hexenbiest - had been such a large, looming presence in her life for such a long time, it didn't quite compute. "She had her last child on the run," she commented, almost on autopilot. _Are we really having a conversation about Adalind?_

She still didn't know what she was going to do. But this was too surreal. Juliette turned away.

Bud was still staring at her, twisted sideways in his seat. When he saw her turn in his direction, his mouth began to work again.

"You're not dead," he finally exclaimed. "You were dead! Weren't you dead? And now you're not dead. We were at your funeral. It was a good one, really," he babbled. "Very dignified and everything. I talked to your mother ... Nice lady, you know? Of course you know; she's your mother. Anyway! So you're not dead."

Her _mother_. Oh God. Her parents ... More things she didn't know how to handle. 

She shoved the thought aside, fixing her eyes on Bud. He fell silent, wogeing in nervous fear. Juliette smiled, widely. "Rumors of my death were greatly exaggerated," she said sweetly. Something cold and calculating at the back of her mind considered just how easy it would be to frighten him entirely out of his wits. The prospect held no pleasure for her. Taking pity on him, she softened her smile. "Hi, Bud."

He blinked rapidly. "Hi, Juliette?" He made it sound like a question, and beside him, Hank looked down, trying to hide the twitch at the corner of his mouth. That was better. Wasn't it?

Juliette finally took a sip from her coffee, nearly forgotten. Monroe had been right; it really was bad.

~*~

It didn't take an eternity; it only felt like it. Juliette had retreated back to Sean's side, and everyone else had settled back into some semblance of normal conversation. Nick kept throwing her looks that were alternately infuriating and heartbreaking; Bud kept twitching whenever his eyes met hers, and Wu seemed half baffled, half excited by the whole situation once Hank had given him a quick explanation. Trubel had remained leaning against the wall in the background, trying to hide her yearning looks at the assembled group, until Nick stepped up to her, took her by the arm, and pulled her into a chair next to him.

Juliette, with effort, ignored her.

Monroe and Rosalee were determinedly trying to draw Nick into a conversation, but he seemed unable or unwilling to follow their lead, body too stiff, nervous energy vibrating under his skin, tension that had nowhere to go. 

She knew the feeling.

Finally the door at the back opened, and a woman in hospital scrubs came out, presumably the physician. Nick rose from his chair, and like a puppet's strings being pulled, every sinew in Juliette's body drew tight.

"She's progressing well," the woman told Nick, smiling. "Smooth as anything; that's what we like to see. I'll be back in a minute, but Ms. Schade has asked for you to come back in." With a quick wave, she turned around the corner.

Abruptly, Juliette stood up. All eyes were on her immediately, all with varying degrees of wariness, grating on her skin, and she felt raw. She wanted to slam her powers into them, wipe those looks away.

"I'm going in with you," she said, facing Nick fully, ignoring everyone else.

She heard a sharp, indrawn breath - Hank, it sounded like. Sean beside her had stilled.

Nick's shoulders hunched, and he threw Juliette a look that was so full of emotion it hit her like a punch in the gut. Fear, yes, but also a desperate hope, and more pain than he'd allowed her to see in a long time. She'd _known_ he was hurting, but ...

His face worked. "Juliette," Nick said hoarsely. "Please, no."

She almost wanted to turn away then, walk out, let it all go. But she couldn't. _If not now, when?_ she thought again, frantically. In the end, Juliette simply stood, looking at him, unbending.

"Do we have to do this now?" Tired, weary, but pulling himself straighter, bracing himself for a fight. 

Yes. _Yes,_ she had to do this now, before she lost her nerve.

"Yes," she said out loud, gesturing toward the doors emphatically. 

Nick's eyes had grown dark, distant. Then his gaze shifted away from her, and he turned, walking toward the door without another word. His stance had turned very Grimm. She could almost see the shadow of an axe in his hands, held loosely, ready for a lightning-quick strike.

If he thought he could stop her, he was wrong.

She followed close behind, pulling the door shut behind her.

The room had a corner walled off next to the door, presumably a bathroom. Juliette could see a birthing ball ahead, neglected in the corner, and to the left the foot of a bed, the legs of a woman in it.

Who was paying for all this, anyway? Did Adalind have money? She shook the thought aside.

"Adalind?" Nick was saying, stepping up to her bed. The gentleness in his voice was infuriating.

Juliette took a deep, steadying breath, feeling her power sizzling in her fingertips. She hadn't known what she was going to do, had only known she needed to be here, needed to face Adalind for herself.

Now, she knew. A grim smile began to curve her lips.

"Hey, Nick," Adalind said, sounding strung out and tired, out of breath. "This is going a lot faster than last time."

Juliette made herself stride forward, back stiff, eyes narrowed, face expressionless. Adalind let out a squeak when she came into view. She scrambled backwards on her bed, away from Juliette. Her belly was very round, and her face looked swollen. "No, no, you can't be here, you're dead!"

Juliette, slowly, deliberately, came closer. Adalind's terror was very satisfying, if perhaps not as satisfying as her dead and mangled corpse would have been.

"Nick!" Adalind whispered urgently, eyes flickering to him. "You have to protect me!"

Nick's face was hard, expressionless. He stood silent, looking darkly at Juliette. At that moment, she hated him almost as much as Adalind.

Juliette stopped at the foot of Adalind's bed and lifted her hand. Adalind gasped.

Nick was on her almost immediately, stopping himself at the last moment. His eyes flickered rapidly back and forth between Juliette and Adalind, confused, then in realization.

"Juliette," he said, pained, the hardness of the Grimm fading from him.

 _Yes, Nick._ She could have snapped Adalind's neck with a single move. She hadn't. Yet.

"Hello, Adalind," she said sweetly. "Long time no see." She kept her hand raised, the threat eloquent enough.

"Please," Adalind croaked, tears welling from her eyes. "Please, my baby, don't hurt me, don't hurt my baby ..."

 _That_ wasn't satisfying. At all. "Oh, please," Juliette snarled. "As if you give a damn about that child in its own right. Either of your children. All you want is to _own_ them."

"No, no, please," Adalind continued, as if she hadn't heard at all.

"Don't be such a child," Juliette snapped. "You deserve it - you deserve a lot worse than this. Be glad you're not dead yet."

"What - what are you going to do?" Adalind's eyes shifted hectically, flushed red spots on her cheeks. "Nick ..."

" _Don't_ look to Nick. He couldn't stop me." Juliette took a deep, trembling breath. This was it. This was what she needed to do. "I'll let you live - but never forget, I'm keeping an eye on you. The moment you even _think_ about betraying us again, you're dead meat." She bared her teeth. "And don't worry about your baby - he's going to be _just fine_ without you. Much better off, I'd say," she added cruelly. "Someone like you shouldn't be allowed around children at all."

Nick stood there, looking anguished, saying nothing.

Adalind's eyes had gone very wide, as confused as terrified. When Juliette finally dropped her arm, she slumped forward in something like relief, but only for a moment. Her eyes flicked up again quickly. "You're not going to ...?" she asked, incredulously.

"Not today." Juliette gave her her hardest glare. "I'll wait until you turn on us again. Because you will. You always do. I'm not pardoning you - I'm only giving you enough rope to hang yourself." With that, she turned on her heel and strode out, throwing a casual, "Later, Adalind," over her shoulder.

~*~

Juliette stopped dead as the door closed behind her, and the cruel glee drained out of her, leaving her empty.

Everyone was staring at her. Monroe and Trubel had risen from their seats. The only one who didn't look at least somewhat terrified was Sean, but then, out of all of them, Sean's poker face was the best.

 _I'm only giving you enough rope to hang yourself,_ she'd said. Was that what Sean had been doing with her?

No. No. She couldn't believe that. He was trying too hard for that. Even when he'd been cruel to her, he'd still tried to soften the blow. He wasn't very good at comfort, but then, she was worse. They'd blundered through it together, and it had worked, in its own way, hadn't it? It hadn't been a complete disaster.

Unforgivably, she felt herself shiver. She wrapped her arms around herself.

It was Monroe who spoke first. "Not to be indelicate," he said, head tilted to the side, "but they _are_ still alive in there, aren't they?"

Juliette huffed a watery laugh. "Yes, Monroe, I went in to kill them both, right in front of all of you, that's why I'm here." She sounded brittle, close to shattering, alien even to herself. "I'm sorry, I should have sent you a written invitation, too. _You are all invited to really stupid public murder_ \- how does that sound?"

The corner of Sean's mouth had drawn up a little. He gave her a minuscule nod, and inexplicably, it braced her.

"Sorry, Monroe," she managed.

Monroe twitched, then came a few steps in her direction. His face worked. "Yeah," he said, inanely. Then, deliberately, "Are you okay, Juliette?"

Repeating his earlier, rebuffed, overture.

Juliette blinked water from her eyes, and breathed through her mouth because her nose was suddenly clogged. "I'm fine," she whispered, tonelessly. "I'm fine."

Then Monroe was there right in front of her, hesitantly reaching out, a tiny, barely-there touch on her shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said, "I'm really sorry, Juliette."

His sympathy scorched her, clenched her heart. She didn't deserve it; terrifying Adalind had been so very fun, so very satisfying. Why did it feel so empty, so pointless now?

But she'd done it, had said her piece and had walked out. No one had fought; no one had died. That had to count for something.

~*~

The physician had gone back inside, two nurses in tow. Nick hadn't come out again. Juliette sat next to Sean, fingers crumpling an empty coffee cup, trying to wrestle her reeling emotions under control, when Rosalee walked over and sat down next to her.

"I lied to you," Rosalee said, matter-of-factly.

Juliette blinked, taking in her former friend's calm, determined expression. "And I should care?" she snapped. Around them, everyone was watching, everyone was listening in, their attention a palpable pressure on her skin. She had no energy left for this.

Rosalee shook her head, not in denial. "I said I'd give up being a Fuchsbau to be with Monroe," she told her calmly. "I didn't mean it as a lie. I meant -" She grimaced. "I don't know what I meant. I'd hate it. I don't blame you for hating it too."

Juliette's hand clenched around the mangled plastic cup.

Seriously. They were doing that now? Rosalee had had the gall to come to her pretending to be a friend, and it had been all about Nick. _You love Nick, you need to be this for Nick, you need to give this up for Nick ..._ Nick, Nick, Nick. 

She bared her teeth, leaned forward threateningly. "You'd still have done it to me all the same." She couldn't forgive that. She didn't know how.

"We did what we did to that Ziegevolk lawyer as well," Rosalee reminded her. "And to that Huntha Lami Muuaji - do you remember that one? I'm not sure Nick ever told you; it was right in the middle of ..." She trailed off.

"I heard the story," Juliette said coldly. From Sean, not from Nick. What did Rosalee want from her?

"That was a terrible thing to do," Rosalee continued seriously. "But when you have no other way of stopping someone, what else can you do?" A determined, resolute look. "I stand by that, Juliette. I'm so sick of Wesen abusing their powers. I'm very sorry, but that is what I believe in."

Juliette swallowed, and tried to suppress the shiver running over her skin. Rosalee's honesty was cutting, and somehow harder to digest than Nick's pained, furious terror, than Sean's strange, incongruous, cruel kindnesses.

Rosalee's convictions ... She'd never have thought she'd run up against them, one day. She wouldn't have been able to imagine.

"Are you going to try that again?" she asked, dangerously. _No one_ was going to get the better of her again. No one was taking anything away from her again.

Rosalee's eyes turned pitying. "You seem to be stopping yourself, now. If you keep doing that - if we're lucky, I'll never have to try."

They'd been friends, once. Now, the distance between them seemed immeasurable.

 _If you're lucky,_ Juliette nearly snarled back. But she knew better, after all.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Nick rubbed a tired hand over his face, stopping before he could open the door to rejoin his friends.

Friends, and ... Juliette.

What an evening. He'd barely had time to try and regain his equilibrium - what little of that he had, these days - after the intense meeting at Renard's house. The humiliating confrontation over his drunken night with Renard; Juliette's explosion and the revelation of her survival; his friends' retreat, patently angry at Nick's secretive behavior.

He'd hoped for a breather, after that. Just a moment to catch his breath. Then Adalind had called for him, telling him it was time.

He'd phoned Monroe in a panic, and Monroe had promised to tell Hank and Rosalee and so on. _Then_ he'd called Renard, not sure why exactly - in the spirit of fairness, maybe, not wanting to blindside the man again. As a small apology for the unpleasant exposure of Renard's private life. Something.

And then this.

Calling Renard ... Nick certainly hadn't expected it to hit him in the face like this. Juliette! Why would Renard bring Juliette here, now? As if all of this wasn't enough. 

God. He'd thought he'd have to fight her again. For a too-long moment he'd thought ...

Nick's stomach clenched, and he had to force himself not to retch. Behind him, Adalind was breathing heavily through the physician's calm coaching. She'd told him to get out, _again_.

 _You'll betray us again,_ Juliette had said to Adalind, implicitly aligning herself with her former friends. But Nick was afraid to read too much into what might be nothing but a slip of the tongue.

Bracing himself, he pushed open the door and stepped out into the waiting room again.

The assembled group was daunting. They were all here for him; they'd all come for him. Even though they'd parted on a note of tension - God, had that really been only a few hours ago? - here they were, all of them, for him. He couldn't handle them all, not now, not again. He needed a break, and desperately, but there was none, would be none, not for him, not any time soon.

Soon, he'd have a son, a tiny new-born baby who'd need all the attention he could give. It seemed impossible, all of it, just now.

And Renard had brought Juliette along. Nick kept coming back to that. Even if it had turned out less disastrous than it might have - Renard couldn't have known that, couldn't have been _sure_.

He stepped up behind the man's chair. "We need to talk," he said, voice low, ignoring everyone else who was listening.

Renard half turned and threw him a considering look. Then he nodded briskly, unfolding himself from his chair. "Very well," he said, and they stepped away from the group.

Nick led the way, pushing through the doors, stalking along the corridor tense and furious and spoiling for a fight, for something simple, something safe. Around the corner, out of earshot for anyone, he stopped in front of a window and turned, glaring at Renard. 

"What the hell were you thinking!" he accused, voice low and harsh.

Renard looked at him, unimpressed. Not pretending for a moment he didn't understand. "Giving her a chance," he said simply. "Brooding in my guest room isn't going to go very far."

"What if she'd ..." His voice caught.

"She didn't." Renard's eyes seemed distant, calculating. "I didn't think she would."

"You couldn't have known!" How dare Renard take that kind of risk with Juliette - with his son. What if she had ...? Nick still couldn't bring himself to finish the thought, even though a dozen scenarios tumbled through his head, one more horrifying than the next.

"No. I couldn't," Renard admitted. A considering look, then, "You didn't exactly try to stop her from going in yourself."

Nick bristled. "You didn't leave me much of a choice!" Then he deflated, wiping a hand over his forehead, the back of his neck. "I couldn't have stopped her if she'd ..." His throat closed. What _had_ he been thinking, other than, _Oh God, please, no_? He clenched his eyes tight for a brief moment. "I couldn't keep waiting for her to attack again," he whispered, knowing it sounded broken, sounded lost.

"Exactly." Renard's reply could have been matter-of-fact; it came out rueful instead, and pained. 

They looked at each other. Nick drew up his fists, wanting to lash out at something, someone. Knocking Renard into the wall had felt good, on Friday. A moment ago, he'd been furious enough. But Renard's admission had left them, once again, with a terrifying, shared understanding. Nick's anger had lost direction, and there was no convenient target to redirect it to. 

Smashing the window they were standing at might be satisfying, but he wasn't quite that far gone. Yet.

"Nick." Renard's hand closed over his shoulder, firm and warm. He wanted to lean into it, but opted for a glare instead. Renard didn't pull back.

"I just can't," Nick murmured, under his breath. 

"We've had a strange night. Juliette and I ..." Renard shook his head, shaking off some memory. "Take your time."

Juliette and Renard. 

It went through him in an instant. The way she'd come in, clinging to Renard's arm. The way she'd seemed to gravitate towards him in the waiting room. Renard's hands framing her shoulders, earlier this evening, gentle and not rejected. 

Juliette and Renard. That was happening, wasn't it? The sense of loss was like a punch to the gut.

Nick swallowed. He'd lost Juliette months ago: he'd known there was no way back to what they'd had. Lucky enough that he hadn't had to fight her again. At least Renard was ... At least Renard understood. Nick could deal with that, he told himself. He could.

God. And everyone else was still hung up on _Nick_ and Renard, weren't they? God knew what they were thinking, right now. God knew what Juliette was thinking, after that earlier confrontation. 

Nick lowered his fists and looked down, simply standing, simply breathing, feeling Renard's hand on his shoulder, allowing himself that small comfort, just for a moment longer.

~*~

"Guys," Nick said, some time later, "you don't all have to wait up with me."

"Dude, are you kidding?" Monroe nudged Nick with his shoulder. "Of course we're staying."

"Well," Wu said, with a sideways glance at Renard, "some of us have work in the morning. But it's not that late yet - give it another four hours, and I'll still have had longer nights on the playstation."

Hank snorted. "That's on you, Wu. Ever tried some beauty sleep?"

Wu grinned at Hank briefly. "I wouldn't want to blind the precinct." 

"Wu's right," Renard added. He was sitting next to Juliette again. "We're in no hurry here, Nick."

Nick threw him a grateful look. He had half expected the captain to send his officers off to bed, which was ridiculous if you thought about it. He looked around the room. They were all here - all his friends. All for him. He didn't have to do this alone. His heart clenched.

It couldn't be long. Any time now, the baby would be born. His mind seized at the thought.

"I've been thinking about Chavez," Rosalee said eventually. 

Juliette's head came up abruptly, and Trubel sat up from her slouch, suddenly stiff. The two of them glared at each other. Trubel looked away first.

"She's going to come after us, sooner or later," Monroe said, nodding. "People like that never just stop."

"If she isn't already," Hank added, then turned, looking directly at Juliette, speaking to her for the first time. "She's looking for you, isn't she? What if she finds you here?"

Nick twitched. Juliette's hand tightened around the edge of her seat, knuckles very white.

"She won't," Nick said, with finality. "She's not watching me because she thinks Trubel is, she doesn't know about the captain ..." He shrugged.

Trubel threw him a grateful look, and a wave of fury washed over him again, remembering Juliette's earlier cruelty. That had been horrible to watch, fearing something worse and feeling guilty for being _relieved_ at mere cutting dismissal.

"And she's not exactly plugged into the local gossip circuit," Renard added, sounding pensive. "She knew nothing about Nick, and nearly every Wesen in the city could have told her better."

It had been obvious for a while that word was getting around about Portland's very own Grimm. Nick still felt vaguely uneasy, being the subject of gossip, but it had cut down on the terrified reactions he'd gotten, in years before - that he still got, much too often.

He wasn't the kind of Grimm they feared, and it could be exhausting to have to keep explaining it.

"So we can take her by surprise," Wu suggested. He'd only found out about everything tonight, but had caught up quickly, rolling with the punches - like all of them, these days.

Nick should have known he would. Instead, he'd tried to keep Wu away from the truth, had actively lied to him, all because he didn't want to force him into a truth you couldn't turn back from. Why did he keep doing that?

"How?" Hank threw in, voice low and dubious. "You got any bright ideas you're not sharing?"

Wu rolled his eyes at him, but only shrugged in response to the question.

They all looked at each other. Only Juliette was turned away, her teeth worrying her lower lip, looking not at all like a dangerous Hexenbiest.

"Anyone got any ideas?" Nick said tiredly. "Because I'm all out." The admission hurt; he _wanted_ to do something, to protect Juliette, to avert the danger, but once again he couldn't. The helplessness made him angry.

Over the low tables he met Juliette's eyes. The same helpless, defiant, furious anger burned in her eyes, an uncomfortable recognition.

"I guess you could go all Grimm on her," Hank said, considering. "Think you could take them all?"

Probably. She wasn't nearly as good as she thought she was. Nick had nearly done it, Sunday morning - had nearly gone after Chavez then and there, axe and all, blood-red rage boiling in his head. God, had that really only been three days ago? 

_His fists in Kenneth's face, Kenneth's blood on the ground ..._

No. When had that become his first instinct? 

He could kill them all. What would that solve, other than prove that he really was a killer? He could beat them up, try to threaten them into leaving. What would that do, other than make him a bully?

Nick could feel Renard's eyes on him as if he could read his thoughts, weighing, judging. _Murderer,_ Renard's voice whispered in his head. And Trubel was looking at him, almost alarmed.

No one else seemed all that bothered by the suggestion. The realization jerked through him, a painful, unwanted clarity.

"No." It came out harsh around the lump in his throat. "That's not a solution."

"Then I got nothing, man." Hank offered him a wry shrug. 

"Um," Trubel said, and ducked her head. Nick tried to catch her eyes. After a moment she looked up, defiant. "I can't believe how you're talking. I worked with her - Chavez is not that bad!"

"Isn't she." The harsh, bitten-off words were the first thing Juliette had said since Nick had come out of the delivery room. Nick saw her fingers clench, and couldn't even begrudge her her anger.

"Sorry!" Trubel blurted. "She's ... look, maybe she was wrong about you, maybe she's wrong about a lot of things. But she's trying to do the right thing, okay? Most people aren't." Then she ducked her head again, as if she couldn't believe she'd actually said that. 

Nick's teeth clenched. "The dying blood of a Hexenbiest," he said harshly. "Hundjägers' noses. That's trying?" He was acutely aware of Juliette's eyes on him, too surprised by his anger. She should have known, he thought bitterly. She should have known he wouldn't condone _that_.

Trubel threw him a confused look. "What are you talking about?"

Hadn't he told her about that? "For the Hexenbiest cell," Nick forced out. "And the locator potion they used to try and find Juliette after we broke her out. Your friend Chavez is just fine with ingredients that other people died for." 

"What? That's ... I didn't know that!" Trubel's eyes had gone wide, hurt and confused. "But you were talking about killing them - how is that better? You can't ..." She trailed off, and seemed to be shrinking into her seat.

But she wasn't wrong. When had Trubel become the less violent one?

_Renard's back against the wall, Nick's fist in Renard's wall ..._

What had he become? And worse, what had he dragged his friends into? 

Two years ago, even a year ago, would they have been so blasé? Would two of his friends, police officers both, have brought Kenneth to him, knowing what he was going to do? No matter the cause. No matter Kenneth's crimes. 

He didn't regret Kenneth's death, couldn't - wouldn't. But the how of it ... 

Nick's skin itched, and he wanted to dig in his fingers, scratch it off, make it all go away. He couldn't.

What else would they do if he asked? It was on him; it was all on him. He'd dragged them into this, every one of them. It was all on him.

"We can sic the Wesen Council on them," Monroe suggested eventually, exchanging an uncomfortable look with Rosalee. "I mean, they're not too happy with us these days, and, well, vice versa, but they're useful sometimes."

"That's for the longer term," Renard dashed the momentary hope of a simple solution. "It won't get Chavez out of Portland now, and the moment we start putting pressure on her superiors, it'll tip her off."

Nick had known that. They'd thought it all through the day before. 

"That doesn't leave much, you know," Hank said. "I mean, what else can we do? They _are_ working for the FBI."

Wu scratched his nose thoughtfully "Well," he said, "I wasn't aware kidnapping was legal for the FBI." Everyone turned to stare at him, and he tilted his head quizzically. "What? Technically she did kidnap Juliette."

"Technically?" Juliette snarled. "She -"

Nick sat up abruptly. "Wait."

Monroe had perked up as well. He turned to Nick. "You can't do that ... can you?"

Could they? It seemed almost too easy. But once upon a time - last _year_ , for God's sake - it would have been his first thought, wouldn't it? A detective's instinct, not a Grimm's. 

Nick swallowed. "I think we've been forgetting who we are," he said slowly, feeling it out, meeting Hank's eyes first, then Wu's, finally Renard's. Then sweeping over the rest of the group, outsiders for this. "Keeping someone prisoner in an abandoned house ... That should have been our first instinct, not an afterthought. We're police officers. We're supposed to be better than that." He rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. Hank looked away. Wu's eyebrows had gone up. And Renard was regarding him thoughtfully. Nick shifted to meet the captain's eyes, straight-on. "What do you think? Can we?"

Renard did not have to consider for long. "I don't see why not," he said, mouth quirking up, his whole expression lightening. "And it _would_ solve several problems in one go."

Juliette's eyes went back and fort between them. Then, she was simply staring at Nick, eyes wide, lips parted a little. Stunned, perhaps as stunned as he, by his uncomfortable realization.

After a moment, Hank nodded. "Yeah," he said slowly, sounding relieved. "I guess you've got a point." 

Wu was grinning; Monroe and Rosalee smiled at each other; Trubel looked nothing but relieved. 

Nick held Renard's eyes for a long moment, sharing the feeling of a plan coming together.

"What - what are you guys talking about?" Bud asked into the sudden silence. "What are you going to do to Chavez?"

Nick smiled, feeling more himself than he had in weeks, perhaps months. "We're going to arrest her," he said, "for the kidnapping of Juliette Silverton."


	11. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long break! This story is finally back on track.
> 
> There are some lines of German in this chapter. Hover your mouse over the text to see an English translation, or check the end notes.

Renard regarded Juliette across the breakfast table. She'd been brisk and matter-of-fact this morning, but she'd prepared breakfast herself, throwing him a nervous look when he'd come downstairs. It was an overture he didn't quite know how to take. For a morning after it would have been promising, but a great deal more had happened last night than merely the sex they'd had.

After her confrontation with Adalind, after the plans they'd made for Chavez, Juliette had been caught up in her own inner turmoil. Adalind had finally given birth shortly after midnight, and she'd looked down at Nick's son, small, red and wrinkled, wailing loudly until his mouth had found his mother's breast, her expression tight and closed but her eyes softening almost against her will.

To Renard, the child had been a painful reminder of his own daughter, still lost. This child would not be, he promised to himself. To Nick.

Given all of that, the aftermath of their surprisingly non-violent encounter earlier that night had not been at the forefront of either Juliette's or his mind. Perhaps it was better not to dwell on it, for both of them.

Renard pushed the thought aside and focused on the issue at hand. The first step of their plan would be executed this morning; Juliette would come down to the precinct with him and would make her report. A kidnapping victim, recently escaped, who'd turned to Captain Renard as a friend because she hadn't dared go home to the very place she'd been taken from.

He wasn't going to ask her whether she was ready. If she wasn't, she'd only lie, and either way, she might take offence.

Renard could see the tension in Juliette's face, the faraway look of someone attempting to prepare a script for a scenario with too many variables. He hoped she _was_ ready - she and Nick both. Making this look and sound genuine wouldn't be easy.

Last night, in the face of Nick's bright-eyed epiphany, Renard had allowed himself to be swept along. On consideration, the risk was higher than he was entirely comfortable with. Yet he couldn't think of a better solution, and much like Nick, he found it appealed to a part of him that, of necessity, had taken a backseat in recent events. 

_Kenneth, manipulating people and events with more skill than Renard had anticipated._

_Juliette, caught in the maelstrom of her emerging powers, turning to darker and darker deeds._

_Nick, lost in a haze of vengeance._

_Jack the Ripper, murdering women with Renard's hands._

Yes; it was good to think of himself as a police officer again, and better to see Nick that way, first and foremost.

_Be careful_ , he remembered his mother saying. _The things you want the most can destroy you the easiest._ But he couldn't, wouldn't pull away now.

He only hoped Juliette and Nick wouldn't stumble when they realized what they'd let themselves in for, the performance they would have to convincingly present. Because he couldn't shake the feeling that they _weren't_ ready, not either of them.

Voicing his skepticism now would do no one any good, though.

"Is there anything else we need to discuss before we head out?" he asked instead.

Juliette's head jerked up, and she abruptly set down her coffee cup, her hand coming to rest tense and nervous beside her plate. "What are you going to do about me?" she asked. Then she grimaced, and suddenly seemed very interested in the last rasher of bacon on her plate.

Renard blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Come on," she snapped, not meeting his eyes, and wiped tense fingers over her mouth. "You know what I mean. I won't have to hide any more. Are you just going to let me walk away?"

He hadn't thought she'd put any thought toward the future, just yet. And it was unlikely she had concrete plans. What was she angling for? 

At any rate, her plans were unlikely to include him. She'd almost clung to him the night before, but in the long run, would she be glad to be away?

"Were you planning to?" he asked, stalling for time. "Yes, you'll be officially alive again once this is done. But you could leave now, if you chose." She was hardly a prisoner; _letting her_ was entirely beside the point. 

Juliette looked at him after all, and her eyes were very dark. Her fingers drummed nervously on the table. "You've been keeping an eye on me." 

He intended to continue doing so, even from afar. At least if she stayed in Portland.

"You let me." Renard hesitated, then reached across the table for her hand, hoping it was the right call. "You know that as well as I do. You can do whatever you want." 

Juliette's fingers closed around his, tight and desperate. "But I don't have much choice about wanting what I want."

She was afraid. Afraid, and holding on to him, to whatever illusory security he could offer. 

What _could_ he offer her? All he could do was hold her hand.

Juliette looked down at her final, still uneaten rasher of bacon, lost in her own head again. "Trubel loved bacon," she said after what seemed a very long time. Then her face pulled into a frown, and her eyes hardened. 

She'd been quite cruel to the girl, last night. Given her imprisonment, anything else had perhaps been too much to hope for. 

"I imagine she still does," Renard replied blandly.

She threw him a glare. "I shouldn't care! She deserved it, and more."

"She did betray you," he agreed. "And you hit her where you knew it would hurt." With an effort, he made the words sympathetic rather than harsh or even merely matter-of-fact. He'd been hard on her, last night; he could stand to offer some kindness now, when she clearly needed it. _She'd_ been generous, even despite his cruelty, in a way he'd never experienced her before ... 

Renard shook off the wistfulness before it could take hold. He knew better; he couldn't afford it. But she hadn't let go of his hand, and he didn't pull away either.

"Yes." Juliette swallowed, and looked down. "Yes, I did."

Was that regret? It certainly was something other than the vicious satisfaction she'd worn in that moment.

Renard considered her for another long moment. Had he done the right thing, sleeping with her? Certainly it had been a calculated risk. It hadn't led to any new disasters yet, and Juliette didn't seem to regret it. That was something.

She had made enormous strides the previous night. Renard would have preferred it if she'd refrained from confronting Trubel, and from threatening Adalind. But she had done no worse than that, and that in itself counted as significant progress. More, she'd handled the assembled group of her former friends reasonably well, and she hadn't lashed out at either Monroe or Rosalee despite being handed the perfect opportunities. 

Perhaps that meant she was ready to handle Nick after all, later today at the precinct.

"You can't forgive Trubel." 

She nodded; he'd stated the obvious. 

"But you can still regret your retaliation," he continued, a necessary but perhaps unwelcome reminder. 

Juliette blinked, and for a moment he thought she'd be affronted. But all she said was, "Can I? I'm not so sure." 

Renard squeezed her hand that was still holding his in a tight-knuckled grip, then slowly rubbed his thumb over it, coaxing her clenched fingers to relax. It wasn't much, but it was as much as he knew how to give. 

Confront her? He could do that. Force her to face an unpleasant truth? He could do that, too. But true comfort, beyond the physical? He didn't know where to begin, no more than he had with Nick at the hospital. They both needed something that was beyond him.

Perhaps after this, after Chavez was taken care of and their lives were allowed to return to some semblance of normal, Juliette and Nick would be able to finally talk. They clearly still did care for each other, no matter how much had come between them.

Finally, Juliette wiped at her face with a tissue, stuffed it into her pocket and nodded at Renard. "Okay," she said. "Let's do this. Let's go."

He nodded at her. Time to drive down to the precinct, set their plan in motion.

Then the doorbell rang.

~*~

"You should go upstairs," Renard told Juliette, not taking his eyes from the security monitor. His eyebrows had gone up when he'd recognized the face, and he was mentally running through scenarios as fast as it could. "Or into the bathroom."

"Seriously?" Juliette's eyes flickered toward the door, taken aback.

"And if you ever speak to this man, be very careful what you say. He's not an enemy, but he _is_ dangerous," he added, with some urgency. 

Juliette merely blinked, digesting this; she still wasn't moving. She didn't seem to appreciate the deviation from the projected course of their morning, or the abrupt shift from a rather emotional conversation to imminent danger.

Well, he wouldn't have chosen it either, but it couldn't be helped.

"Go. Now!" he instructed, somewhat sharply. Startled and glaring, Juliette opened the bathroom door. Renard was glad to see her obey; this wasn't the time for an argument. 

Once he was sure Juliette was out of sight, he went to open the door.

Meisner's face hadn't changed much, though he looked tired, even for a man as frequently on the run as he was. His beard looked less well-groomed than it might have. He was carrying a large and apparently heavy backpack. Only offering a quick nod, he pushed inside without a word and waited for Renard to close the door before he spoke.

"Schön, Sie am Leben zu sehen."

"Gleichfalls," Renard responded drily. They hadn't been in touch for some time, but Meisner was one of the few Resistance leaders whose competence he actually had faith in; that counted for a lot, in this alliance. And they'd parted on reasonably good terms, the last time. "I didn't expect to see you on this side of the pond."

Perhaps in answer, Meisner carefully lowered the heavy backpack from his shoulders and pulled back the flap. A small, blonde child's head became visible; small arms lifted, and a hauntingly familiar face turned into the air. Renard drew in a quick, involuntary breath.

The girl's eyes found Renard. It was a girl; he knew that, even if she didn't look much like she had about a year ago. Her mouth opened into a wide smile, and her hands stretched out toward him. Something pulled on his necktie, and its end lifted, floating in her direction. She giggled.

"Diana," Renard breathed. He was crouching next to her immediately, pulling her free from her hiding place. His heart clenched, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment to gain control of the sentiment. 

She had grown - big as a three- or four-year-old already. He'd known, but it was another thing entirely to see it for himself. Juliette had seen her recently, of course - had handed her over to Kenneth and his father. Renard suppressed the instinctive jolt of anger. That part was over.

He turned to Meisner. "Thank you," he said, very genuinely heartfelt, and allowed himself a single moment of unalloyed gladness. Whatever Meisner's motive - and there had to be some agenda involved - for this, for _her_ , he owed the man. 

"I'd considered other options," Meisner said brusquely. "But the game board has changed. Too many Verrat are after her, and as you say, this is not my home turf."

Of course Meisner would have considered using Diana for himself. Why he'd come here instead remained to be seen; his stated reason was hardly plausible. 

"I won't complain," Renard answered, standing up, Diana securely on his arm. "Quite a bit has happened here recently," he told Meisner, deliberately vague. "How much of it are you aware of?" It would be interesting to see what the other man would tell him. Less than he knew, naturally.

"Prince Kenneth died," Meisner answered readily. "I expect you had a hand in that?"

Renard merely smiled mysteriously. "Good riddance." He would have preferred a different method of disposal, but he couldn't regret the fact of it.

"You will get no argument from me. Nor on your father, indeed."

"Mm," he said blandly, then, abruptly, "Did you kill him?" Diana _had_ been with the King, last he'd known, after all. For Meisner to have gotten his hands on Diana ...

Meisner stilled - for effect, clearly. He couldn't possibly have expected not to have to answer that particular question, here. "Are you seeking vengeance?" he asked.

"Hardly." Renard's complicated feelings over the matter were none of Meisner's business. At any rate, they were nothing to risk an alliance over.

"In that case, I offer my condolences."

"Thank you," Renard retorted in much the same flat tone. "He _was_ my father, after all."

"And have you had news about the power structures within your family?" Meisner asked.

"Nothing definite." Renard shrugged. "I don't think it matters. There are six other families to worry about who haven't had such a setback."

"That's true." Meisner eyed him thoughtfully, then seemed to come to some sort of conclusion. "I knew where to find you. Is it true that Adalind is in Portland as well?"

Why had Meisner not verified Adalind's presence for himself? He was asking Renard for a reason. Attempting to ascertain whether they were still allied? "She is," he merely said.

"Ah." Meisner, uncharacteristically, hesitated. "The child has uncontrolled outbursts. She needs a Hexenbiest's guidance. I would have searched for Adalind directly, but there are too many Verrat, and the child is not easily hidden."

Perhaps that made sense. Meisner, for all that he was well informed on things concerning the Royal Families, was not up to speed on the local, Portland side of things, nor would he care about such small-scale conflicts. To him, Renard might have seemed an obvious path to Adalind. Using Diana to establish goodwill between them first, naturally. 

And not even bargaining. Meisner could easily have extorted whatever he wanted, or sold Diana to the highest bidder and washed his hands of the consequences. The man was ruthless enough to do so. But he hadn't done either; that had to mean he had some plan in mind that didn't need it. Perhaps snatching Diana back once he'd secured the resources he needed - perhaps Adalind along with her.

Or perhaps not. Meisner had helped Adalind escape from Vienna, at Renard's instigation, had been there when Diana had been born, after all. It was just about possible he had a soft spot for mother and daughter. That might be useful.

Later, Renard told himself. First things first.

"Adalind has no powers at the moment," he said simply. Meisner couldn't have known that; he'd likely seen Adalind as a powerful ally in her own right. Best to dissuade him from that right away, before he gave Adalind ideas. "But of course she is not the only Hexenbiest available." 

Renard took a fraction of a moment to consider. Had that been warning enough? Should he keep Juliette apart from Meisner, or bring her into play now? Keeping her presence secret would add an element of surprise if Meisner did attempt to take Diana back; making a display of his backup might help deter him from the attempt. Either way, Juliette would not appreciate it. Renard could only hope she wouldn't be too angered. 

For a moment Renard wondered what she was making of his conversation with Meisner, which she had to be overhearing. Then he set the thought aside.

It would be more useful to warn Meisner not to underestimate him, he decided. Meisner was a valuable ally, after all. Toward the bathroom, he said, "You can come out now, Juliette."

Meisner had his gun pointed at her the second she appeared. Her hands were lifted in defense, telekinesis at the ready, the same moment.

"That's really not necessary," Renard chided, somewhere between them.

Meisner's eyes didn't stray from his aim. "I've heard of her," he said tersely. "Working for Prince Kenneth."

Well informed. Then again, this _was_ Meisner. "Don't insult me," he merely replied, before Juliette could say anything. If Meisner took that to imply she'd been working for him all along, well, he wouldn't object. Juliette's personal issues had no part in his dealings with the Resistance. 

Meisner spoke again without looking at him. "Sie vertrauen dieser Frau?"

"Sie sollten wissen, dass ich das nicht leichtfertig tue," Renard replied blandly.

After a moment, Meisner lowered his gun. "Very well."

Juliette glared at him, but came closer, taking a look at the child in Renard's arms. "Hello, Diana," she said, offering a friendly smile. The girl looked up at her for a moment, then went back to playing with Renard's tie. It was approaching abstract art now, twisted and curled around itself, and Diana seemed entirely absorbed by the simple game.

Her silence was a little strange, but then, never mind her looks, she _was_ only a year old.

"Hard to believe she was a baby only a year ago," Juliette mused, echoing his own thoughts.

Meisner shrugged. "Such powerful magic at such a young age seems to have some side effects."

Juliette's face stilled; then she reached out for Diana, gently ruffling her hair. "I know how you're feeling, kid."

Meisner met Renard's eyes over Diana's head, giving a jerky nod. "I will call you," he promised; then he was already at the door, leaving as abruptly as he had appeared.

Juliette looked after him, then back at Diana, and toward the door again. "What the hell was that?" Her voice was flat and tight.

"As he said," Renard said, his thoughts flying, quickly rearranging this morning's priorities and plans. "There are Verrat after him, and he's just very neatly dumped them on us. Well, me - you do have the option of getting out of the line of fire, of course."

Juliette stood stiffly, eyeing Diana, whose head was now resting against Renard's shoulder, her eyes closing. "You're saying he didn't bring your daughter to you, he planted a target on you."

"Both." Renard smiled thinly. "Very efficient, don't you think? I take care of his enemies for him, and he - well, it depends. Best case scenario, he simply has no immediate use for Diana. Worst case, he uses the resulting confusion to try and snatch Diana back. Either way, he has removed himself from the line of fire and is at liberty to further his own plans unmolested. He needn't even make a decision immediately; after all he knows where Diana is and will be for the time being. Or so I assume goes his thinking."

"You said he wasn't an enemy." Juliette's eyes had narrowed, turning dark.

"He isn't." Renard shrugged. "We're allies, actually. But we will become enemies if he tries to take her again." He shifted his daughter in his arms, his heart threatening to melt at the feel of her here, with him, after all. If he had to give her up again ... He struggled to keep his head clear for the necessary decisions. "This changes our plans for the morning," he said distractedly.

Juliette stiffened further. "We had a plan," she reminded him, unnecessarily. Her expression had closed up almost entirely. "I need to -"

"Yes. Later," he cut her off, brusquely, his thoughts still racing. "We need to go to the hospital first."

Juliette drew in a sharp breath. "You're going to see _Adalind_?" she said incredulously. For a second, something insecure seemed to flicker beneath the hardness; then it was gone again. "What about me - what about my statement, and our plans for Chavez?"

Renard had no intention of neglecting those issues - they couldn't afford to - but they'd been very swiftly removed from the top of his list of priorities.

"We'll have to make adjustments." And he pulled out his phone, glad when the connection was picked up quickly. "Nick? Some changes to the plan."

~*~

Renard watched Juliette pace angrily, impatiently, while he made his calls. The one to Nick was perhaps the most immediately important. The one to his mother, the least, for all that he wished it were otherwise. But she hadn't returned his calls in months. He allowed himself a brief moment of worry, then told himself not to be foolish. She'd been out of contact for far longer stretches of time, in the past. He should be used to it by now. He was.

It didn't lessen his worry, of course.

He considered briefly before making his third call. It wasn't the kind of call he was comfortable making in front of other people, particularly Nick and his friends. Nick certainly wouldn't have approved of the kinds of people Renard used - or wouldn't have, in the past. It might be that he simply wouldn't care now, either way. Absurdly, Renard hoped otherwise. He kept the call brief, only impressed the necessary urgency on his contact, and then texted instructions. 

Juliette's eyes were on him, but impatient, not suspicious. _She_ wouldn't care, he thought. Not now. Making it plain that he was having additional people watching Diana, watching Adalind, might pacify her to some degree. But on the other hand it might only stoke her hostility, encourage her in her suspicions. Either way, he'd rather she didn't know any details about his arrangements. After all, Adalind wasn't the only person he would prefer someone to keep eyes on.

Renard shook off the thoughts. He had no time for any of that now.

~*~

The drive to the hospital was silent. Juliette sat stiffly beside Renard, Diana in her lap, saying nothing. The girl was still eerily quiet, too, though he had to admit he had no idea what might be normal for her.

He'd learn.

Eyes focused on the road, not allowing himself too many glances at his daughter, Renard attempted to calculate just how much this new development had thrown his more recent plans off course. But Diana's safety had to come first.

At least Nick would be making arrangements. The Grimm had seemed taken aback, but willing enough to help, despite the rushed brusqueness of the request. There had been no time for more.

"Adalind," Juliette grumbled, not entirely under her breath.

This wasn't helping. The morning's bizarre shared domesticity seemed very far away now. "She _is_ Diana's mother," Renard reminded her. "And there is no surer way to turn her against us again than to keep Diana from her. Again."

"I wish you would," she snapped. "Then it would be over. Not as if she isn't going to, anyway, sooner or later."

Perhaps so. But he was going to do his very best to see that it didn't come to that. The potential for disaster was too great, Adalind too dangerous when enraged, powers or no. He wouldn't risk it needlessly; he wouldn't make that mistake again.

And Juliette might very easily be completely right about Adalind, but she wasn't weighing options; she was lashing out in anger. Even now, she wouldn't think twice before striking at Adalind if she thought herself justified. Renard wasn't certain at all he could pull her back from that dangerous edge to a more secure and calculated level of aggression.

That had been task enough, before - now, everything had become immeasurably more complicated. And Juliette was obviously not best pleased about his changed priorities. Would she resent him for it? He found himself hoping otherwise, and chided himself for the weakness. However she reacted, he would handle it.

He'd _liked_ this morning, he admitted to himself. He'd liked her holding on to his hand, had liked her turning to him last night. He'd wanted it, even if he'd had no idea what to do with it. Just as he'd liked it, at the hospital, when Nick's confrontational attitude had collapsed and he'd simply stood there, exhausted and broken, accepting what small, inadequate comfort Renard could give.

Comfort. They both needed it, and strangely, bizarrely, they'd both turned to him for it. Perhaps more strangely, he'd wanted to offer that comfort, if only he'd known how. Something inside Renard's chest ached at the thought.

He hadn't realized just until that moment how very much of his thoughts both Nick and Juliette had been occupying, recently. But it didn't matter, couldn't matter now. 

Renard shook off the futile musings. They were almost at the hospital.

~*~

It didn't take long until Trubel appeared, just as Nick had promised. Renard leaned over to take Diana from Juliette's arms.

"Stay in the car," he instructed. She glared, slumping into her seat. 

He'd have to make amends to her later, Renard thought as he climbed out of the car. "Thank you for coming," he told Trubel. 

She threw an uncomfortable look at the car and Juliette, then offered him a hesitant smile. "So that's Diana," she said as they walked towards the elevator. 

Diana blinked at Trubel sleepily, waving an arm in her general direction.

Trubel took the little hand into hers and held it for a moment, looking charmed. "Hey, kiddo."

"Yes, this is my daughter." Renard smiled down at her, wishing he could simply keep her with him. "I really appreciate you keeping an eye on her and Adalind." She was the best person for this task, with the people he might have trusted more - Nick - unavailable. 

Trubel ducked her head. "It's not a problem." 

Renard wasn't sure if she'd have been so willing to help if it had been he who'd asked, but then, that was why he'd asked Nick to call her for him. Trubel did crave Nick's approval, after all. 

He didn't allow himself to hesitate at Adalind's door, pushing straight in after a cursory knock. 

"Sean? What are you ...?" Adalind's tired question broke off as she saw the child in his arms. Her mouth fell open, and her eyes went wide. Trubel's presence didn't appear to register at all; her eyes were all on the girl, desperate and hungry.

He could understand that.

"I thought you'd want to see her right away," Sean said, offering her a diplomatic smile. Reluctantly, he set Diana down on the bed beside her. Diana smiled.

Adalind reached out a trembling hand. "Diana," she breathed. "Is it really ..." Her eyes snapped to his. "How?"

"Meisner," Sean said simply. "He's in Portland." He didn't feel the need to explain to her that Meisner appeared to have had a hand in his father's death, in Diana's subsequent disappearance. There would be time for that.

"Mommy?" the girl asked, the first word she'd spoken, and Renard's heart clenched even as Adalind's expression melted. 

"Yes," Adalind managed, voice shaking. "Yes, I'm your mommy. I'm so happy you're here." Then she turned to him. "Thank you," she said, sounding utterly sincere for once. "Thank you, so much."

Renard looked at her, eyes hooded. He'd known he'd broken her heart, taking Diana from her. If he could have seen another way ... He forced the thought from his mind. There was no use in that now.

"She may not be safe here," he told her quietly. "There are Verrat after her still. But we'll do our best. For now, Trubel will keep an eye on her." _On both of you._

Trubel was leaning against the wall again, her favorite pose, watching and listening.

Adalind rolled her eyes, no doubt realizing the various considerations that would have gone into that decision. She had never been slow on the uptake. "I suppose," she said drily, knowing very well she wasn't being given a choice. Her arms were wrapped around Diana, holding her close.

Renard considered. It would be easy not to mention what Meisner had told him about Diana's magical outbursts, or that he had enlisted Juliette for help. But she would, inevitably, find out. And react badly, as she always did.

"Meisner said her magic is not entirely under control," he told her, "and she needs a Hexenbiest's guidance." A wry smile. "He thought it would be you."

Adalind drew in a sharp breath, looking something between furious and frightened. She sat up straighter, clutched Diana more tightly. "No! Not her." At his dark look, "You can't do that. She's my daughter! You can't take her away from me again!"

He knew her too well. "And mine," he reminded her, offering her a conciliatory smile. "I brought her here, didn't I? And I won't keep you from seeing her. But you have no powers now. And after everything we've been through, you cannot expect me to trust you."

"You betrayed me just as much," Adalind managed eventually, summoning a sneer.

"We never were good for each other," Renard said, old fondness creeping into his voice. "And if it had only been me, it might be a different thing. But what you did to Nick and Juliette ... that crossed a line."

Adalind closed her eyes, not willing to hear. 

When she looked at him again, a moment later, she looked frightened. That wasn't good; there was no telling what she'd do if she felt too threatened. Renard deliberately softened his expression, leaned toward her a little, and lifted a hand to brush over Diana's head. 

"What is it you want, Adalind?" he asked her quietly. "We share a child. Just as you share your newborn boy with Nick." That was a slightly surreal thought still. "You are their mother. If you want to give them their best chance, work things out with their fathers. Despite everything, you've been given that chance."

It was ironic, the way Adalind and Juliette were in such similar places now. Yet he felt indescribably different about them, and couldn't quite justify the difference to himself.

Adalind pouted. "You make it sound so easy."

"You've never tried," he reminded her, keeping his voice gentle. "You've tried everything else, haven't you? Every turn, every alliance you could think of. None of them seem to have worked out for you. But you've never stayed the course. Perhaps it's worth a try."

He dearly hoped she'd take it to heart.

Adalind swallowed, then glared at him. "How do I know you won't send her away again?"

"I wanted her safe," Renard said, leaning forward, intently. "I still do. I hope you do as well. Then, sending her away was the only choice I could see." Saying sorry would mean nothing, not when they both knew he would have done the same again, under the same circumstances.

"And now?" Adalind's arms were wrapped defensively around Diana; the girl was snuggling against her mother's body. How much she understood of their conversation, neither of them could be sure.

Trubel was listening, too, of course. But they had said nothing that would be unsafe to let get back to Nick.

"My family is considerably weakened," Renard said. "It would have been fatal to try before, but now?" 

"You're serious."

"She wasn't safe enough, away from us," he said harshly. "At least here, we know what to expect."

And just like that, he'd voiced the decision he'd made, without consciously being aware of it, the moment he'd set eyes on his daughter again. She was his. He wouldn't lose her again.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Juliette sat in the car, silently fuming. She'd been parked here, put on hold, just like that. It was clear she'd been set aside, her concerns put out of Sean's mind, the moment Meisner had appeared with Diana.

Well, apart from being conscripted as a Hexenbiest tutor for the girl, without so much as a by-your-leave.

_Damn_ Sean. She'd thought they'd had a moment, this morning. He'd reached out - _he_ had, for once, his hand on hers, not waiting for her to make the first step. She'd thought ...

But then he'd switched from that closeness into _this_ as if nothing they'd done had mattered, as if _she_ didn't matter at all. Bitterness and fury roiled in her stomach, and she wanted to scream, to shatter something. Every time she thought she'd begun to understand Sean, he turned around and was suddenly a stranger again.

_She's his daughter,_ Juliette reminded herself. Could she really begrudge him that?

She could. She did.

And he'd called Nick. These two were joined at the hip now, weren't they? Juliette tried to swallow her resentment, her unearned jealousy, the loss of something she'd never really had.

Sean was too distant, too far away. Why had she slept with him, again? Whatever connection she'd hoped to make, had it all vanished into nothing? Had she ever reached him at all?

Last night, she'd believed differently. That confession of caring for her ...

She wrapped her arms around herself, against the tension in her stomach. 

The car door opened. Juliette startled; she hadn't noticed Sean approach. No doubt he'd chide her for her lack of vigilance. Juliette glared at him as he slid back behind the wheel.

He'd left Diana with Adalind. The thought made her furious.

Adalind claimed to love her children. _I don't believe you_ , Juliette thought, darkly. Adalind wasn't capable of it. But all she had to do was wait. Eventually, Adalind would show her true colors, and then ...

Sean turned towards her.

"So now you trust _Adalind_ ," she snapped, before he had a chance to say anything.

Sean rolled his eyes. "Yes, Juliette, that's why I'm having people keep an eye on her," he said drily. "When it comes to my daughter, there is only one Hexenbiest I trust." 

His mother, naturally. Not her; never her. Why did she even want him to?

"Perhaps you," Sean added, after a moment, "if you hadn't handed her to Kenneth before."

Juliette flinched. She hunched her shoulders, feeling very strange. Had she even cared? If anything, the thought of taking something from Sean had only felt like satisfaction. Seeing the girl again had been unsettling. "I wouldn't do that again," she said around the tightness of her throat, hoping it was true.

His eyes were penetrating. "No," he said after a moment, "I don't believe you will." A small, wistful smile. But he offered nothing more.

He believed her, though, didn't he? At least that much. That was flattering, almost, or would have been if she hadn't been downgraded from whatever she'd been to him, this morning, to a mere resource.

"So you do trust me more than Adalind," she said, almost petulantly. Fishing, and hating herself for it.

"Of course I do," Sean said simply. Before Juliette could breathe relief, he continued, " _You've_ only betrayed me once."

Juliette froze, staring at Sean, feeling like she'd been knocked in the gut. She had betrayed him. She knew she had.

And what, a single betrayal didn't even rate, for him? It was almost as if he didn't take it personally at all, as if he should have known to expect it. That couldn't be right, could it? 

Sean never fully trusted anyone; she'd worked out that much. But this?

He turned on the ignition. "A little later than scheduled," he said, "but let's get this show on the road." Back to business, as if nothing had happened, as if nothing had been said.

Juliette tried to swallow down the lump in her throat. She'd thought he'd forgiven her. But now ...

Had he simply acknowledged the changed circumstances, and acted accordingly? His kindness the night before, the comfort he'd offered this morning - did they mean nothing? Had any of it really been about _her_?

He might never actually forgive her, she realized. Never trust her. It might only ever be this.

She might deserve it, but oh, she'd hoped differently. And she had no right at all to complain about the sting of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Meisner: "Schön, Sie am Leben zu sehen." = "Glad to see you alive."  
> Renard: "Gleichfalls." = "Likewise."
> 
> Meisner: "Sie vertrauen dieser Frau?" = "You trust this woman?"  
> Renard: "Sie sollten wissen, dass ich das nicht leichtfertig tue." = "You should know I don't do that lightly."


	12. Chapter 11

Detective Pogue stopped at Nick's desk on his way past. "Hey, Burkhardt," he said, pointing upward with a thumb, "you know what's going on up there?"

Nick grimaced. Seemed he'd been caught looking at the ceiling once too often. He forced a grin. "If I did, would I say anything? Maybe I'm just annoyed my partner is in and I'm not."

_Up there_ was where Renard and Juliette were, along with a select number of officers including Hank, but no one in the bullpen knew what was going on. No one but Nick, who couldn't tell. Juliette's case was going to remain tightly under wraps until after Chavez and her people were safely behind bars.

Nick made small-talk for a little, knowing he came across as tense. Never mind; tomorrow everyone would know why. Eventually he turned back to his computer, pretending to focus on work.

Waiting again. It was excruciating. 

There'd been so much of it lately, Nick felt like he was doing nothing but. Always waiting: for dark, so he and Renard could free Juliette; for Trubel's return, so he could confront her; for evening, so he could set his friends straight about the secrets he'd been keeping. For Adalind's contractions to start; for his child to be born. 

( _His baby._ He had a son. That tiny child, held in his arms for a few precious moments ... No, he couldn't think about that now.)

Waiting, again, now: for Renard to call him upstairs, where last night's plan was being put into action.

Waiting, with nowhere to go for his frustrations, with nowhere for his thoughts to turn but in circles.

Nick leaned back in his desk chair, trying to keep himself from fidgeting. At least with the general levels of excitement in the bullpen, he wouldn't stand out too much, and tomorrow's raid would put everything into perspective. 

Last night had been bad enough. It had been a long day even before the drive to the hospital, and dealing with Adalind was always draining, even - or especially - when she depended on him.

And then Juliette had appeared; that had been almost too much.

If not for that brief moment of comfort Renard had offered him, he might have fallen apart. Might actually have started smashing his fist into a window, or a wall. Might have picked a fight with the next convenient target.

Instead, he'd had what he could only call a moment of clarity.

Grimm or no, Wesen or no, he was a police officer. He was _supposed_ to uphold the law. If he went beyond that, if he made forays into vigilantism, it should be only out of necessity - only because there were crimes the human code of law didn't account for, criminals a human prison couldn't hold. It should be a last resort.

It had been, once. He'd lost his grip on that, on himself, sliding into ...

_Kenneth's blood. Kenneth's murder._

Into something worse than mere vigilantism, that was for damn sure. 

Searing clarity: for the first time in months Nick didn't feel like he was drowning.

Coming to the precinct this morning, he'd been tense and ready to go. _Get this over with, and then ..._ But the plan had changed almost as soon as Nick had arrived, with a terse call from Renard informing him that his daughter had resurfaced, with - naturally - Verrat on her trail, and could Nick ask Trubel to come to the hospital, keep an eye on Diana while she was with Adalind?

Nick had agreed, of course, irritated by the delay and feeling guilty about it. 

Damn. The wait would have been difficult even if all had gone according to plan. 

Finally, Renard had arrived, though just as planned, he hadn't made an appearance in the bullpen, hadn't come to his office. He'd called Wu and a pair of uniformed officers, and they'd taken over a suite of conference rooms on the floor above. Then he'd brought Juliette straight up there from the parking garage.

Nick hadn't witnessed any of that in person, of course, had only seen Wu and his two colleagues disappear toward the elevator. 

Then nothing had happened for a while, other than the low-level curiosity in the bullpen, other than Nick and Hank playing at ignorance. Wu had come back down after a while, sending two detectives upstairs in his place. Some time later, Renard had started calling in more people, including Hank. 

Nick had breathed a sigh of relief, then. Juliette's initial report clearly had gone well.

He'd been worried about that. What if she didn't pull it off? What if her report came across as a fabrication? Which it was, after all, in too many of its parts. The case was pretty bizarre, leaving out all the Wesen-related explanations. Without that background, Juliette had been kidnapped and her death had been faked for no discernible reason. And Juliette's record wasn't clean any more - she'd disappeared from her work place long before her kidnapping, had been arrested for her part in a bar fight, had been in lock-up for a while. 

And her very public confrontation with Adalind, right here in this precinct, hadn't left the best impression either.

Nick's own role in today's events was short, necessarily - no police officer as close to the victim as he would be allowed in on this case. He'd be given the chance to be there for Juliette, a little, but no more than that. Juliette's part was far larger, and everything hinged on her performance. 

But Renard had approved the plan; he'd clearly thought Juliette capable. And he'd been right, apparently.

Renard was a better judge of Juliette's state of mind than Nick was, these days. The thought stung. Nick had lost what insights he might have had into her months ago, when she'd started changing. Perhaps before.

It could still all go wrong, though. Last night, everything had been clear and obvious, and he'd felt like he was reaching for something clean, for the first time in too long. But now? 

Next was his own part, after all. Their joint part. He'd have to offer Juliette support and sympathy, and she'd have to take it from him. Playing character witness, without explicitly saying so. They'd have to ...

Damn, they really hadn't thought this through. Every time they'd met since Juliette had been freed, things had gotten tense. They'd nearly come to blows more than once. And now, in front of all those officers upstairs ... 

What if Juliette - what if _he_ reacted badly? What if they both did?

A wrong note now could collapse the whole case, make everything that had seemed genuine come across false. Damn it, why hadn't they gotten this over with earlier, with less of an audience? Though one witness would have been too many if it had gone wrong.

_Get a grip, Burkhardt._ Too late for second thoughts. 

Finally, the phone call came, and he stood, making his way toward the elevator, trying not to show too much of the relief bubbling under his skin.

~*~

Two uniformed officers - a man and a woman - were guarding the one unlocked door to the suite of conference rooms, keeping out anyone who wasn't expected. The man - Officer Wickers - threw Nick a look that was half pity, half distaste; Nick didn't have to fake his look of utter puzzlement.

"Go in, detective," Wickers said after a moment, making a small gesture toward the door. 

Nick gave him a nod and went in, shaking off his confusion. He needed to be clear-headed for this. 

Hank was waiting for him inside, an expression of concern on his face. "Over here," he said as the door closed behind Nick, and Nick followed him through one of the internal doors to another room.

He stopped just inside the door, arrested. There she was, sitting at a table that had been pushed into a corner, handing some papers and a pen back to a blonde officer, and she looked ... 

Juliette had chosen well, he had to admit to himself. No makeup, hair open. Her plain clothes said _harmless_ without being too blatant at it; she looked so incredibly normal it nearly tore him apart.

She seemed tense and worn, eyes reddened, but that, too, was only normal under the circumstances.

The blonde officer - Messina - murmured something to her, and she turned around. Their eyes met.

Nick could almost have forgotten that everyone was watching them, that they were performing for an audience. He almost wished this was real, that Juliette had been taken and then escaped, that she was back home now and everything would be all right.

But it wasn't, and he had a part to play. "Hey, Juliette," he managed hoarsely, not having to fake the rawness at all. "How are you doing?"

Juliette smiled at him, a tremulous, watery smile, and she stood, her hand coming up, reaching out to him across the room. Perfectly acted, or too real, who knew? Not he.

Not he.

With long, rushed strides he was with her, and his arms went around her, pulling her tight against his body, burying his face in her hair. 

"Juliette," he whispered. 

Her arms were around him, and she was clinging to him just as hard. "Oh God, Nick." Her voice sounded broken, falling apart.

They held on too tightly, too long, or just right, and both of them were shaking. If only any of it could have been real.

"Juliette. I've got you." It was all he could do to manage the words, to keep playing out their little charade even as he felt her against him, real and solid and warm and all _Juliette_ , all herself.

He hadn't held her like this since ... 

Since before she'd told him the truth. Since before he'd known she was a Hexenbiest. 

What she was seemed to make no difference now; she was _Juliette_ , and she felt and smelled like herself, and he felt his eyes watering, face burying deeper into her shoulder.

If he'd held her then, when he'd first found out, would it have been like this? If he'd taken her into his arms and held her, rather than walking out, reeling, unable to cope with the chaos in his head, the churning in his gut? Would it have been so hard to look at her, then?

_If._ Instead, everything had fallen apart, leaving their lives in pieces.

"You can probably let go now," she whispered into his ear after a while. But she wasn't pulling away.

Finally he brought himself to let her go, and they looked at each other, smiling through tears that had to be, that could only be real. "Are you okay? They're not pushing you too much?" he asked, not the question he wanted to ask, but the necessary one. The only one he could ask, here.

She threw herself against his shoulder again. "Oh, Nick." 

And from behind his shoulder, he could hear Renard's voice, calm and sympathetic. "Ms. Silverton needs a break," he said, waving away the other officers. Then to the two of them, "Come on. Let's find you a more private spot."

~*~

Nick's mind was reeling when he left the conference rooms. He'd protested when Renard had told him to leave, had argued he needed to be there for Juliette. But Renard was deep in the planning of a raid, and Juliette's debriefing was still ongoing in an attempt to get all the details they could. Nick couldn't be in on that. He was too close. A necessary public argument; an inevitable one.

Besides, no doubt Renard was worried - not without justification - that if Nick stayed too long with Juliette, something might go wrong again, audience or no.

Finally Juliette had spoken up. "I can manage," she'd said, shaky but determined. "I can do this, Nick. I just need to get it over with." She'd swallowed. "And Hank's here."

Hank, who was a friend - or had been, once upon a time - but not a close one. Not so deeply involved his judgment would have to be considered compromised. Someone who could be allowed to be there.

With a final squeeze to her shoulder and the expected protective glare at Hank, Nick had allowed himself to be sent away. It was for the best, he told himself. But he could still feel her in his arms, and it hurt like losing her all over again. 

He'd lost her. Months ago. And he still couldn't understand quite how or why.

"How's your baby, Burkhardt?" Officer Wickers asked, mouth twisting into something unpleasant and confrontational as Nick came through the door. Officer Torres, next to Wickers, threw her colleague a sideways look, but said nothing herself.

Suddenly, with dreadful clarity, Nick understood, _knew_ the reason for Wickers's unfriendliness. Judging him for having a child with another woman while Juliette was ... while Juliette ...

Well. He couldn't exactly explain. 

Damn; never mind the truth - he didn't even have much of a cover story. They really needed an official version for what had happened between him and Juliette. And him and Adalind. Nick suppressed a shiver.

"The baby's fine, thanks," he said stiffly and walked toward the elevator, feeling Wickers's eyes on him all the way.

_His son's face, small and reddened. Adalind's beaming face._

_Juliette, in his arms._

At the last moment Nick turned toward the staircase instead. Perhaps it was cowardly, but he really couldn't stand there waiting for the elevator, feeling Wickers's silent judgment on his back. 

He couldn't.

~*~

Nick busied himself at his desk, fiddling with paperwork, making no appreciable progress on anything. He couldn't concentrate, and the curious looks from everyone else in the bullpen weren't helping. Things upstairs were still ongoing.

After a while, Renard came downstairs. On the way to his office he paused, head tilted to the side, hand lifting in silent invitation. "Nick. A word." 

Nick managed a jerky nod in return and went to follow.

Renard said nothing more until the office door had closed behind them. Even then, he examined Nick's face for a long, uncomfortable moment, seeing too much. Finally he nodded to himself. "That was well done, from both of you."

Irrationally, anger welled up from Nick's stomach. Praise, really, for _this_? Too much of what had happened up there hadn't been a performance at all, and the captain must know that perfectly well. But he was evaluating it coolly, as if the emotional turmoil he'd witnessed were simply irrelevant.

On some level, it was.

Nick forced himself to take a breath. "That was hard," he corrected Renard with a scowl. "We did it, yes, because it had to be done. But ..." He trailed off. What could he say?

"Because you were holding a Hexenbiest?"

Renard's sharp words were like a bucket of ice water. Nick was too stunned; his "What?" came out incredulous rather than angry.

"You were, you know. And you're not that good an actor, Nick. It didn't bother you just now. Why?"

"I don't know!" That had almost been a shout. With an effort he calmed himself down. Shouting in the captain's office would only draw attention. "Do we have to talk about this now?"

Renard's lips curled into a wry smile as he leaned back to sit on the edge of his desk. "We don't have to talk about it at all. But you should give it some thought."

"Maybe." Nick knew his scowl didn't exactly concede the point. He wasn't ready to admit that Renard was, once again, right.

Damn the man, anyway.

"So who's this guy who brought back Diana?" Nick asked, abruptly changing the subject. "You were pretty cryptic earlier."

Renard lifted his eyebrows ironically, but allowed the evasion. "Martin Meisner. He's a significant figure in the Resistance," he explained. "One of the more ... infamous leaders. I've never known him to operate outside Europe before. I assume he came to Portland because my father did."

The King. Wait a minute. Meisner had turned up with Diana, and Diana had last been seen with the King. Whose dead body had been found, not too many days ago. Nick drew in a sharp breath. "Did he ..."

"I assume so."

"And you're okay with that?" Incredulously. Was Renard really this calm about the person who'd presumably killed his father?

"Let's not pretend here," Renard snapped, standing up straight again. "Or are you honestly going to claim you suddenly care?"

"No." _Not about the King._ "But he was your father."

"Eric was my brother," Renard said, nostrils flaring. "And Meisner killed him on my orders."

Nick stared.

An impatient gesture. "You knew I had him killed."

"You never said it outright, though." Stalling.

Renard shrugged. "He crossed a line when he targeted you."

Nick leaned forward with a glare. "Should I be flattered? Or was I just the trophy in that little game?

Renard took a step closer, looking down at Nick with dark, intent eyes. "Oh, be flattered," he breathed. "A Grimm is a valuable trophy, I will admit, but if that was all you were I wouldn't have gone that far."

Nick's eyes met Renard's, and the aggression bled away. What remained arrested them in the present moment for what seemed an eternity. The air between them was filled with a strange tension, not hostile but no less charged for that.

They were standing much too close, looking at each other much too intently, bodies and faces angled toward each other. Flushing, Nick took a step back and looked away.

No, of course they hadn't ... of course Renard hadn't ... 

Of course not. That was only Nick's imagination. 

After a moment, Renard turned away as well. "Meisner wouldn't have given Diana to me if he had associates here he could trust," he said, somewhere not to Nick's face. "Not without negotiating first, anyway."

Nick forced himself back on topic. "Doesn't sound like a very nice person."

Renard flashed his teeth. "Not nice at all. But a valuable ally all the same."

"Someone who'd use your daughter to bargain with you?"

An exasperated shake of the head. "Someone who'd keep a bargain once it's made."

They looked at each other in mutual incomprehension, and Nick felt helpless fury rising in his gut, not at Renard or Meisner but at the world they inhabited, a world where that kind of thinking was expected, or perhaps even necessary. Did Renard even know he didn't have to make these calculations with everyone? with Nick?

Nick wished he knew how to explain the difference, how to make it clear to Renard - how to reach out without stepping over a line and into a quagmire he was pretty damn sure Renard didn't want to be dragged into again.

A knock on the door interrupted them, blessed relief, though Renard threw an annoyed glance toward it. His voice was perfectly, blandly even nonetheless when he called, "Come in."

Wu put his head through the door. "Sorry to interrupt, Captain, but I thought you'd want to see this." A sideways glance, pulling the door closed behind him. "And Nick, actually."

Renard's eyebrows came up. "Yes? What have you got?"

"Four dead bodies in St. Johns," Wu told them. "Gunshot wounds. We have a witness who heard it happen, and thinks he saw someone fleeing the scene. So far, so mundane, but take a look at this." He waved a stack of photographs between them. 

Renard took them from him and looked them through, expression closing more with each one. Wordlessly he handed them to Nick. They all depicted hands. Palms, to be precise. Nick scowled. 

"Those tattoos tie them to a whole bunch of other killings, over the years," Wu said drily. "Gang-related is the theory, isn't it?"

"Verrat," Nick snarled. Which Wu knew perfectly well, of course. 

Damn. After what Nick had done at the house Kenneth and the King had rented, there hadn't been any left in the area, but these must have been a new group, come in on Meisner's and Diana's tail, just as Renard had warned him earlier.

This couldn't be all of them, could it? That would have been too convenient.

Nick finally asked the pertinent question. "Who did this? Meisner?" 

Renard threw him a brief, half-amused, approving glance. "That's the question," he agreed. "Wu? You got anything more?"

"At least three separate guns," Wu said, looking between them. "Employed at fairly close range. We'd normally assume multiple killers, unless the autopsies give us reason to think otherwise. We also found a knife at the scene that doesn't seem to have belonged to any of them - no empty sheath. No blood, no fingerprints." He widened his eyes quizzically. "I have to ask - who's Meisner? And could he have done all that?"

"A Resistance leader from Europe. And yes, he could," Renard said simply. "Well, three guns and a knife seems a bit much in a single fight. It's not impossible, but I wouldn't jump to conclusions." He nodded at Wu. "Keep me posted about this."

"Will do, Captain." With a wave, Wu excused himself.

Nick looked at Renard. "Either way, these guys aren't coming after Diana again." 

"No, they're not." Renard gave a small, satisfied, and dangerous smirk. "I'm sure there will be more, though."

"Aren't there always." Nick sighed. "You'd think they'd avoid Portland by now, just for the attrition rate. Do they really consider their own that expendable?"

"Their superiors do. And the individual agents? They're cocky - they all think it couldn't possibly happen to _them_." A decidedly dry smile. "Much like certain detectives of my acquaintance." Then, "Look, Nick. We've got things in hand here. There's nothing you can do for the day."

Nick scowled. "You're not letting me back upstairs, are you?" 

He knew that. He even knew it was for the best. But he still hated it.

"We've been through this, Nick. You know you can't be involved in this, for more than one reason. Much less be part of the arrest." A considering look. "Actually, let me make this perfectly clear. You _will_ keep away from that. Even unofficially."

Nick glared, not appreciating Renard's tone. "Will I."

Renard returned his glare, not giving an inch.

"What are you going to do, reprimand me for going against orders?" Nick sneered. "Feel free."

Renard sighed. "You don't want to tip your hand. We want everyone to think this is an ordinary police operation," he said reasonably. "Everyone, including Chavez. That's not going to happen if they come face to face with a Grimm."

"I don't have to come face to face with anyone to be there." He knew Renard was right, rationally. But he wanted to be there. If he couldn't go in and punch Chavez out himself for everything she'd done - to Trubel, to Juliette, to himself - at least he wanted the satisfaction of seeing her taken down. He wanted ...

A sharp shake of the head. "I mean it, Nick. You can't do anything here. So take the chance - go and be with your child."

That stopped him. The baby. He had a child. How had he managed to forget, even for a moment? But it still hadn't quite sunk in that this was real. All thoughts of Chavez, of Juliette, of the raid were wiped from his mind in an instant.

_His son._ He could go and see his child.

While Renard couldn't be with his. Nick hoped his sympathy wasn't too plain on his face. Renard wouldn't appreciate it. 

"Thanks," he said, voice rough with emotion.

~*~

Nick unlocked the front door and waved Adalind and Trubel ahead of him.

He'd gone straight from the precinct to the hospital, finding Adalind up on her feet and arguing with her physician. She was visibly tired, but she'd refused to stay at the hospital for a moment longer than she absolutely had to. After a moment's consideration, looking at the group assembled in Adalind's room - Adalind herself, Trubel, Diana, and the baby - Nick had agreed. The Verrat might have difficulty trying to snatch Diana from a hospital, but this was hardly discreet. The last thing they needed was the Verrat's attention drawn to the baby as well. So he'd packed everyone into his car, and they'd gone home.

It was still only early afternoon. Both the girl Adalind was carrying and the baby in the carrier Nick was holding were fast asleep.

They went through into the living room, and Adalind put Diana down with a tender expression on her face, tugging a blanket around the sleeping girl. Then she turned around and reached for the baby.

The baby. _His son._ Reluctantly he handed the carrier to her, and she beamed down at the child before setting it down on the couch table. 

"Nick ..." She made as if to step closer, then hesitated, tucked her blonde hair behind an ear. "Can we talk?"

Nick nodded, reluctantly. 

Trubel shuffled her feet. "I'll be upstairs if you need me, okay?" she said awkwardly, and didn't wait for a reply before she headed for the stairs.

He'd have to talk to her, too. Why had all his relationships turned out so complicated? If you could call what was between him and Adalind a relationship.

Adalind sat on the sofa beside Diana with a sigh, slipping off her shoes. For a moment she closed her eyes, looking incredibly worn. Then she lifted her head to him, and her eyes were shining.

"What are we going to do now?" she said, sounding desperate, almost frantic. "I don't have any money, I don't have an apartment any more, and you -" She met his eyes, straight on. "And you don't really want me here."

He knew about her financial situation; it was why he was paying for the hospital. But this couldn't go on forever.

"Plenty of parents manage, even if they're not living together," Nick said. He didn't want to be talking about this. He had no concrete solutions to offer, after all.

"I won't let you take my son away from me." Quiet determination, more frightening than outright anger.

It was always _my son_ or _my baby_ whenever she wasn't trying to placate him. Nick resented it, but even knowing Adalind and what she was capable of as well as he did, he still wasn't sure if that was simply habit and instinct, or something worse.

"Our son," he corrected. "And no one's taking him away from anyone, all right? We'll work it out. We don't have to decide anything now, or make any changes. But we need to think about it." He took a deep breath. "And we need a story."

She looked puzzled. "Story?"

"How it happened. You. Me. Juliette. The baby. All of it." Nick rubbed a hand over his face, scratched his forehead. "We'll just say I was in the process of breaking up with Juliette, you and I were a one-night stand, and right now no one's with anyone and we're all just friends. Is that okay? Can we do that?" It came out too belligerent, and he tried hard to soften the tone with a smile.

"You want me to move out," Adalind concluded, darkly. "But I can't go! Juliette will ..." She shivered. Her eyes flickered between the two children, then back to Nick. "You'll protect me, won't you? You won't let her ..."

He stood stiffly, knowing she was playing to his instincts and hating that it was working. "I won't," Nick said more harshly than he'd intended. Again. He deliberately gentled his voice. "I won't let anyone hurt you." 

Adalind looked away. "You didn't do anything at the hospital," she said, wrapping her arms around herself.

Nick suppressed a wince. Was she raking those wounds open on purpose? Or was she just that afraid? Given that it was Adalind, either might be true. " _She_ didn't do anything," he reminded her. 

"But -" Adalind stopped, hesitated, then changed track. "Will you just sit?" She waved a hand at him. "I don't want to fight with you. We have to ..." A long, tender, obviously heartfelt look in the baby's direction. "For his sake, can we just stop? I don't want to do this alone."

Nick's gut clenched. Had she meant that to be a threat? Probably not, but if she wanted, she could take his son away. _If you let her_ , a nasty, unpleasant part of him whispered, and he suppressed it as quickly as he could. He sat down heavily in an armchair, fighting the urge to cross his arms in front of his chest.

"You don't have to," he told Adalind, voice hoarse. "And I don't want to fight with you either." If nothing else, because there could be no good ending to that. It couldn't come to that, not again. He couldn't let it.

They looked at each other, wryly, and for once he thought they might actually understand each other. Perhaps they were on the same side after all, for the baby's sake. But how could he dare trust her?

"I need you," Adalind said, and her face twitched, almost on the verge of tears. "I don't have anyone else."

Nick swallowed. The problem was that it was true. Even after everything she'd done, he couldn't turn his back on someone who depended on him. 

And she was his son's mother. _Kelly's_ mother. She'd wanted to call him Kelly. His heart clenched.

An unpleasant, suspicious voice at the back of his head went further. Adalind had named her son after Nick's mother. Juliette had helped set up Kenneth's murder of Nick's mother. What would Juliette think, hearing that? Had it been _meant_ as a reminder?

"I won't let anything happen to you," he promised again, and took a risk. "Adalind?" he said, gently, lifting an open hand, trying not to let her see how hard this still was. "I don't want you to fight with Juliette either."

Adalind's blue eyes flashed dangerously. "She tried to kill me!" 

"Yeah well," he snapped back, "let's not start with who did what to whom first, all right?" He forced himself to calm down again. Tiredly, "Let's just ... stop it now. Can we just do that?" Inwardly, he flinched. That had come out altogether too much like pleading, like something he'd never want anyone to see, much less Adalind of all people.

A complicated expression shivered over Adalind's face, there and gone again. "You still like her," she said, half accusing, half pitying. Then she drew a deep breath herself and looked away. "Okay," she said wearily, "okay. I'm just afraid for our baby."

"You're afraid for yourself," Nick said baldly, and before she could react, continued, "and that's not a problem, okay? But no one's after you right now. I promise. So just ... leave it at that for now. Please."

"I'll try," she said, swallowing heavily. Her voice quavered a little. "Nick, I'm afraid."

He believed her. But that was no help at all. "It's going to be all right," he said. Empty platitudes, but he had nothing else to offer her. Even that much hurt, but he couldn't not.

He only wished Juliette wouldn't keep hating him for it.

After a moment Adalind nodded, leaned forward to look down at the baby in his carrier. Kelly was still fast asleep. Then she turned to the girl beside her, and brushed her fingers through the thin blonde hair hanging into Diana's forehead. 

Adalind's phone gave a chirp; a notification. She glanced toward her pocket, then ignored it, absorbed with the face of her lost daughter returned to her after all. 

Nick caught himself wondering who'd called her. Did she still have friends in Portland? Contacts? Was it someone he should know about? Maybe he should have found a way to bug her phone, the way he'd bugged Trubel's.

Nick winced inwardly. Damn. What was he even doing? 

"I'm tired," Adalind said eventually, sounding defeated. "I'll go upstairs for a bit and lie down. Do you want me to take them with me?"

"You don't have to," Nick said, tired as well, hoping he hadn't made a mistake, hoping she really would try. "Just let them sleep. I'll bring the baby up when he gets hungry. Or Diana when she wakes."

Her eyes were on him for another long, uncomfortable moment; then she nodded. "Okay. Thanks, Nick."

~*~

Nick stared down at the baby asleep in his carrier. _His son._ His mind still caught on the thought, every other moment. It was evening now, dark outside. He'd made sandwiches earlier, for Trubel and himself, for Adalind and Diana. Adalind had fed Kelly twice. Uncomfortable domesticity.

Diana was a strange little girl, content to play by herself, never speaking except for a soft "Mommy?", or a simple "yes" or "no" to a direct question. But then, who knew what was normal for one-year-old magically aged-up super-Hexenbiests?

It had been a busy afternoon after a tense morning after an exhausting day before - an exhausting week - and Nick felt drained. Too many people in the house. He hadn't even had a chance to talk to Trubel, with everything going on - he really needed to make the time. And figure out what to say, how to make things better.

How to forgive her.

Renard had come by on his way home from work to pick up Diana and brief Nick on what had happened at the precinct after Nick had left. Juliette had waited outside in the car. Nick had felt half disappointed, half guiltily relieved.

The preparations for the raid on Chavez's base were complete, and if all went to plan, the arrests would take place in the early hours of the morning. Nick's next part came after that.

Adalind had let Diana go reluctantly. Now she was asleep again upstairs, still exhausted, and Nick was watching the baby again.

Literally watching; he couldn't seem to bring himself to look away, confused wonder whirling through him, fragments of the day dancing in his memory.

He'd held Juliette in his arms, and for once he hadn't been terrified.

He was holding Kelly in his arms now, who might be a Zauberbiest, and that didn't matter either. Kelly was his son. And Nick wasn't afraid of the baby. 

Of course he wasn't; the very thought was bizarre. But why was that different? Why was any of it different? He wasn't bothered by Renard's woge, and he'd handled Henrietta just fine, no matter how much she'd unsettled him. But Juliette ...

When she'd woged, finally showing him the truth, his first thought had been _Adalind_. His first thought had been, _She's done it again._

Nick looked toward the stairs, and his gut clenched in sudden realization. It was Adalind. It had always been Adalind. Adalind, and what she'd done: impersonating Juliette to take Nick's powers, which had forced Juliette to take Adalind's appearance in order to return them. Which then had turned Juliette into a Hexenbiest, as Adalind was. Adalind and Juliette, intertwined. That was it: not knowing who was in front of him, any given moment. Who she was - which she was.

The conscious thought had stopped, but the feeling had remained.

_Hexenbiest_ would have been hard enough on its own; this he hadn't known how to handle at all. Even less for not being fully aware of his reaction. Juliette or Adalind? He'd known the truth in his head, but not in his gut. 

None of the other Hexenbiests or Zauberbiests he'd met had ever been anyone but themselves; there was no confusion there. With Juliette, with Juliette's _face_ , a fundamental trust had gone missing - had been taken away, piece by piece, by what Adalind had done.

But she was Juliette, and he'd held her today, and she'd never felt wrong for a moment. She was Juliette, and perhaps finally, his gut could actually manage to believe it.

Not that that made things easy. He still couldn't quite disentangle everything he felt for her. Juliette meant love and blinding fury and a confused, petulant, I-didn't-deserve-this kind of hurt that tore him apart. Juliette meant an aching tenderness toward someone who'd betrayed him. Juliette meant a desperate hope he didn't dare let himself trust, a potential he perhaps shouldn't still want.

_Juliette_ meant hope and fear and fury, and the guilt that came with all three of them.

But it wasn't, didn't have to be, horror and revulsion. That belonged to something else. She was _herself_ , and that made all the difference.

Relief swept through him, as if a pressure that had been on his skin every moment of every day for months had suddenly lightened. 

Nick looked down at his son again, that tiny little boy who might be a Grimm, might be a Zauberbiest, might be some strange new mixture of both, and lifted him out of his carrier. His heart felt raw, but in a good way.

Maybe he wasn't doomed to fail. Seeing himself clearly, maybe he could do right by the people he cared about, after all.

_I'll be there for you,_ he promised Kelly. _I won't fail you, no matter what happens._

And he would be there, he decided. There was too much going on in his life, and work was the least of it. He was a police officer, yes, but he could damn well be a police officer on leave. Twelve weeks, wasn't it? What you got for parental leave? He'd have to find out for sure. Talk to Renard, get things settled, as soon as he could. 

It was a split-second decision, but one he knew he wouldn't second-guess.

After tomorrow. Yes.

The doorbell rang, but couldn't disturb the elation he was floating on. Nick stood with a smile. He shifted the baby in his arms and looked through the glass of the door, then quickly pulled it open, surprised. 

"Rosalee? What are you doing here?"

She gave a brief smile to Kelly, then looked at Nick, eyes dark with thought. "I've had an idea," she said. "Monroe thinks I shouldn't. But I want you to hear this."


	13. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some lines of Spanish in this chapter. Hover your mouse over the text to see an English translation, or check the end notes. Many thanks to Joking for the language help!

"Stay in the car," Sean said as he pulled up to the house. 

Juliette turned to him in question, but he was already turning off the motor. Somehow in the moment before she'd looked, he'd drawn his gun. Diana was quiet in the back. "Sean? Did you see something?"

"No," he said tightly. "But that means nothing. Stay here."

While he looked for Verrat, presumably? Who did he think she was? "I can -"

"I know you can," he interrupted her. "Even better than I could, perhaps. But they're after Diana, not me. Keep an eye on her. Please."

"Fine." Grudgingly. But he didn't often say _please_.

Sean got out of the car, leaving the key behind. He walked up to the front door, went inside. Juliette tensed, feeling her telekinesis like a pressure under her skin, ready to release. A _click_ behind her made her flinch - Diana had undone her safety belt. The girl climbed between the seats and onto Juliette's lap, looking up at her in childish concentration. "Bad people?" she whispered. 

Juliette's heart clenched. Was Diana used to such precautions? Having travelled with Kelly Burkhardt, she might be. Juliette shivered. 

"Maybe," she said tersely. "Your daddy's checking."

Diana's eyes, too mature for even the age she seemed, considered her for a long moment. Then she nodded solemnly. "He'll find them," she pronounced.

What? Did she know something? "What do you -"

Two gunshots sounded, almost simultaneously. Not from inside, Juliette thought - from the other side of the house. She let down the window a little, to hear better. Distant sounds of a fight. Should she really sit here and wait, while back there Sean was in danger? She could just wave her hand and snap -

Diana's small hand closed around the hand she had on the door opener. The girl shook her head.

"Are you sure?" Juliette whispered, feeling ridiculous. But Diana nodded once and sat still, her head turned in the direction of the fight, just now going quiet.

Then, footsteps coming closer, along the side of the house. A muffled voice. Juliette tensed.

It was Sean. He was still holding his gun in one hand, and he seemed to have taken a punch or two, but he looked grimly satisfied. "Yes," he said into his phone, "both dead. I need you to take care of this personally." A pause. "Good. Get going." And he put his phone down.

Juliette set Diana down on the driver's seat and got out of the car. "Take care of this?" she asked.

He nodded. "Get rid of the bodies. I'd rather have called the precinct, but we can't afford that kind of scrutiny right now." 

She rolled her shoulders uncomfortably. "Safe to go in?" 

"They never got inside. Lurking out on the deck, actually. But they'd have caught us eventually, going in or out."

"I'd have liked to knock them down the hill myself," she said viciously.

Sean gave her a keen look. "Let's go."

And he went to take the shopping bags out of the car while Juliette helped Diana.

On their way to get Diana from Nick's, Sean had stopped for an emergency shopping trip - the usual groceries, but mostly supplies for Diana, everything from cereal to toys to wet wipes. Equipping the house with the rudiments of what he'd need to take care of his daughter.

"Are you going to keep her?" she asked abruptly, under her breath, stopping just inside the door to Sean's house as Diana ran ahead. After all, there'd been a reason he'd let Nick's mother take her away, a year ago.

Sean turned in surprise, his expression darkening. "Please don't tell me you think I shouldn't," he said, the words quick and sharp. "I might get angry."

At her. Juliette turned away. "Forget it," she snapped, stalking along the corridor.

~*~

It didn't take long. Sean's contact arrived, and Sean went outside to talk to him. Juliette kept Diana away from the windows. She never saw the man. 

Finally, Sean came back inside, giving her a small nod. Everything in order. 

Efficient. She smiled, darkly. Another insight into the life Sean led. Not because he wanted to - because he was given no choice.

Diana, finally allowed, went to stand at the French doors, nose pressed to the glass, looking out at the cityscape beyond. The girl was strange, quiet and almost complacent, much like she'd been the last time Juliette had seen her. _After Kelly Burkhardt's death._

Juliette remembered what had happened in the car. The girl definitely had a mind of her own, but was almost preternaturally self-possessed. It would have been eerie enough at the age she looked; with her it was another sign that her magic had made her something new, something other than merely a child.

Juliette could relate.

She shook her head almost violently, glaring at the girl's back while Sean went back to putting things away in the kitchen. She didn't _want_ to relate, not to this girl whose guardian she'd - however unwittingly - set up to be killed, who she'd handed over to Sean's enemies. This girl who, within moments of her arrival, had taken over all of Sean's heart, usurping whatever space he'd made for Juliette. 

Somewhere deep inside, buried in her memory, the remains of the woman she'd once been protested. _A child, really? You're going to be jealous of a child?_

Yes, yes she was. After all, the child was taking over her place.

Literally, Juliette suddenly realized. He'd need his spare room for his daughter now.

She'd known she was being displaced, this morning, hadn't she? And the day hadn't gotten better after that. Her report at the precinct, struggling to make it all come out right, burned by the sympathy she was offered, maddened by the inevitable doubts. And coming face to face with Nick. 

That little piece of playacting had been the most painful of all. He'd held her. _Now_ he could hold her, for a charade, for other people's benefit, _now_ he wasn't flinching back! When _she_ had needed him - when she'd wanted nothing more than to be held by him, to be comforted - he'd walked away. He hadn't been able to look at her straight since, had shied away from her face, her touch as from something revolting. But for this he'd clung to her, oh so convincingly, and she'd had to let him, and pretend ...

Juliette felt her insides seething, her power bubble just under the surface, her woge a moment from coming over her. Diana turned around, looking up at her with wide, fascinated eyes, as if she could see all of it, even before it broke free. Juliette struggled not to glare openly.

Hexenbiest. That was the role Sean had for her now, wasn't it? Like his father before him.

She spun around to face him. "I'm not your nursemaid, you know."

Sean's eyes had been on Diana, too. Now he turned, startled. "No, you're not," he said eventually, sounding nonplussed. For the first time she realized he looked tired. Then his eyes turned shrewd. "Is this about what I said to Meisner?"

She bared her teeth. "A Hexenbiest, to take care of a Hexenbiest. How convenient you have one at hand, right?"

"Juliette." Sean shook his head, exasperated. "Don't take personally what I said in front of Meisner. Everything's tactical, in that kind of conversation. " He offered her a small smile. "I won't pretend I wouldn't appreciate your help, but I did mean to ask. And you don't have to do anything - I'll manage, either way."

What? Bad enough, only being needed for his daughter, not wanted in her own right. Now he didn't even need her any more? "Meisner said you need a Hexenbiest."

"Meisner's not exactly an expert on Hexenbiests. Or Wesen in general. Some things can only be known from the inside." He nodded slowly. "I believe you know that better than most."

She looked down. "I didn't mean I wouldn't help," she said. It came out petulant, childish, and she covered for it with a scowl. "I never know where I stand with you."

A mirthless smile. "Do you know where you want to stand? I'm still not sure."

Something in her chest constricted. What did it matter what she wanted? She was here because she'd needed a place to hide, and he'd helped. But now he had Diana. And soon Juliette would be officially alive again, wouldn't have to hide any more.

She could go, freely. Find a place to live, start a new life. Perhaps rebuild the some of the friendships she'd broken to pieces, see what could be reconstructed from the splinters. Except ...

Except she didn't want to. She hated her neediness, but she wanted _this_ \- strange broken domesticity, cruel truths, unexpected tenderness and all. This.

Too late. Juliette decided to rip off the band aid. She looked toward the ceiling. "Diana's going to need your spare room," she said, voice carefully neutral.

Sean's eyes followed hers. "Yes," he said, almost absent-mindedly. "I'll want her close."

Juliette swallowed down the lump in her throat and the burning jealousy in her chest. "I'll - get out of the way."

His head snapped around. "Is that what you want?"

"Do I have a choice?" she spat, bitterly.

So many things she wanted, that she couldn't have. Sean, there for her without ulterior motives, _wanting_ her with him. Nick, holding her and meaning it, not performing for an audience, not straining himself to even look at her. A future. A place to belong.

She hated him. Hated them all.

Her power sizzled in her fingertips. Throw Sean against the wall, storm out - and then what?

_Crack._

Juliette and Sean both whirled around. Diana was still standing in front of the French doors, now facing towards them. Beside her, every glass and bottle on the side table had exploded into shards. Juliette watched fragments and drops fly through the air, skip on the ground, watched expensive liquors splash to the floor in a puddle, drenching the room in a heavy, alcoholic smell.

All of it missing Diana entirely.

Sean was beside Diana in a moment, glass shards crushing under the soles of his shoes. He lifted her out of the wreckage. "Diana," he said, "are you ..." And he trailed off, helplessly.

The girl wrapped her arms around him, fiercely. Juliette swallowed, watching his expression melt from worry to a heartbreaking tenderness. 

If _she'd_ smashed something he'd have been angry, she thought unreasonably, unfairly.

Sean set Diana down in the far corner of the living room, away from the mess of splinters and alcohol, and gave her some of the toys he'd bought. She fell onto the wooden building blocks immediately.

Throwing Juliette an unreadable look, he went to sweep away the glass shards, then pulled out the vacuum cleaner to make doubly sure. Juliette, feeling inexplicably judged, sat and watched: Sean and his cleaning, Diana and her seemingly oblivious play.

Not oblivious. Not oblivious at all, that girl.

When everything was tidied away Sean sat down beside her. After a moment his hand closed on her arm. She wanted to shake him off. She didn't.

He said nothing, and they watched his daughter together.

Damn. They'd been getting closer before Meisner had appeared with Diana, and she wanted that back. What did _he_ want? And did it matter? He had no room for her now.

Juliette gathered her courage. There was only one thing to do. 

"I don't have to hide any more," she said.

Sean's face closed as he nodded. What was he thinking?

"You let me stay because I needed it. Well, and because I bulldozed my way in, the first time." She ducked her head, and saw the corner of his mouth twitch. "I don't need it any more. I can find a place of my own." Juliette swallowed harshly. "I ..." Something welled up from behind her eyes, and she had to blink it away. She pulled away from him after all, averting her face. "It doesn't matter any more. You need the room."

Sean's eyes narrowed. "Juliette," he said eventually, something indescribable in his voice, "I'm not about to throw you out."

Her head snapped up. "What?"

"You thought I would, didn't you." It wasn't quite pity in his voice - something sharper than that. 

"You did before," she snarled.

"Not again." He looked deathly serious. "You may not need it any more - you could go anywhere, after tomorrow - but I made you a promise, and I mean to keep it."

She swallowed again, harshly, stunned by his intensity. What did he even mean? "You need the room," she repeated.

"You've never been downstairs, have you? There's an entire second suite. It will need some airing out, and some boxes will need to be moved out of the way, but it's yours if you want it."

Juliette blinked. Tried to digest this, her worries very practically swept out of the way. She bit her lip. "I can stay?" The words came out in a rush, and they continued to tumble out, too fast, "I'll pay rent, I don't want too mooch -"

He stilled her with a squeeze of her arm, then considered her for a long, gut-wrenching time. Finally he nodded, and that wry smile of his came back, the one that said, _I'm fond of you._ It was a start.

"When you have a job again," he said.

She flinched. She hadn't thought that far yet, and somehow she was certain he knew.

"I'll help with Diana," she promised. "All I can."

Incongruously, he chuckled. "Thank you," he said. "I would have asked. But later - I didn't want you to think my offer was in any way contingent on that." He shook his head wryly. "I haven't had the best of luck with conditional offers. Much as it goes against my instincts, sometimes _unconditional_ is the only way to go."

Her eyes widened. "I will," she whispered. "I mean it. Not because you're helping me. Because I want to."

~*~

They kept watching Diana together. The girl was still playing with the building blocks, absorbed in her game as any child. Of course, sometimes a block would float into place rather than being placed by clumsy toddler hands; sometimes a toppling tower was held up - or reshaped entirely - by an invisible force. But that was nothing new; Juliette had seen it before.

The King had offered Diana building blocks, too.

Juliette bit down the urge to point it out, to make the comparison between the two men who'd provided the toys for her. She didn't want to hurt Sean, not now.

Sean's eyes were on the girl, hungry, tender, and it ached to watch. _He_ hadn't seen this before, hadn't seen Diana since she'd been a baby. Now he seemed to melt at the mere sight of her, an unguarded softness in his face she'd never seen before. Glimpses of it, perhaps, she fancied, just for a moment. But she might be deluding herself.

The living room had always been very tidy; Sean wasn't one for clutter. Now, while tidying up the mess Diana had made, he'd removed what few breakables there had been within reach of the child. Not that there was any real childproofing, with a telekinetic.

A wooden tower completed. Diana clapped her hands and laughed, a delighted childlike giggle - the first Juliette had heard from her. All the building blocks began to rise up. Sean startled.

Suddenly, the blocks all rushed through the air - a storm of wooden cubes, whirling at Juliette. Diana was still laughing.

In the space of time it took Sean to draw in an audible breath, Juliette raised her hand. The building blocks stopped dead in the air, slowly spinning.

Sean was on his feet, took a step forward; then he was on the floor, pulling his daughter towards him. "Are you ..." Then he looked up toward Juliette, his eyes were dark. "Did she just ..."

He trailed off, but Juliette understood the question just fine. Had that been controlled or uncontrolled? An outburst, an attack? Diana was leaning against her father, her eyes shining, looking up at the still-spinning blocks.

Hesitantly, hopefully, and very carefully, Juliette lobbed a single block back through the air at Diana.

Diana laughed in delight, and the block came sailing back toward Juliette.

"I think she just wants to play." Juliette swallowed, smiling almost against her will. "Maybe she does need a Hexenbiest." She went to sit down next to Diana and Sean, and a moment later, wooden blocks were dancing all around the three of them.

If Diana lost control, if Juliette failed to step in, someone would end up with a lot of bruises, or even a concussion if they were unlucky. 

_Someone._ Sean, most likely - the only one of them with no telekinesis of his own. But Sean, cautious and vigilant as he was accustomed to being, merely smiled, that heart-melting expression on his face, and watched them play.

~*~

Later, at the kitchen counter, tidying up after dinner, Juliette closed her eyes for a moment. She was still here. She could stay. Alive, not hiding, and not alone.

 _Alive._ Publicly alive, after having been buried.

Juliette opened her eyes. "You were at my funeral, weren't you?" she asked. Everyone must have been there. Even Bud had mentioned it the other day. 

Sean turned towards her from the kitchen cupboard, plates in hand. _More domesticity._ Perhaps some day she'd get used to it. "I was."

"Did you speak to my parents?"

"I expressed my condolences to them." A quirk of the lips. "Not my first faked funeral. But the first one I found out about after the fact."

She huffed a laugh. "Sean - when is this all going to go public?"

His eyebrows went up as he realized the train of her thoughts. "You mean your kidnapping?" At her nod, "Some time after the arrest. I can't say for sure. Once we have Chavez and her people under lock and key, we'll begin the process of setting the record straight, at least as far as the bureaucracy is concerned. If all goes well we'll take our time with a public statement."

"But you can't guarantee that." Not a complaint. 

"Depending on how the actual raid goes, we may draw more or less attention. You know that." He put the plates away, then leaned back against the counter, eyeing her thoughtfully. "If things go smoothly, all the public will know is that there was a police operation involving an empty building in the Southeast. If they don't, I'll have to give some kind of public explanation quickly."

Public. Juliette swallowed. 

"I don't want my parents to find out from the news," she said finally, hardly believing what she was saying. "I need to call my mother." She twitched a little on the last word, and her fingers clenched involuntarily.

Sean stood up straight and came out from behind the kitchen counter. "Are you certain?" 

"No." Torn from her throat. "Just ..."

No, she didn't _want_ to make that call. She didn't want to pretend to be the woman she'd been. It would be so much easier to simply be the Hexenbiest she was now, with none of the ties of her past human life, none of the history weighing her down. Free to simply _be_.

But she was here, with Sean, with Diana. Nick and his friends were still in her life, one way or the other. 

Could she be a Hexenbiest, _and_ Juliette Silverton? In private, hidden away in this house, it seemed possible. Was that why she didn't want to leave?

"Yes?" Sean prompted when she didn't continue.

Juliette grimaced. "If I don't ..."

He studied her carefully. "If you don't?"

Juliette braced herself. "I'll still be hiding." She'd still be pretending, still running from herself. She was _done_ with that. Done with it all, damn it. They'd take her as she was, or not.

She wasn't the woman she'd been. But that woman was still a part of her now.

~*~

The door to her room - her former room - closed behind her. She leaned back against the wood and pulled her phone from her pocket.

Sean had given it to her two days ago, the contact list empty save for Sean's own number. He'd pre-entered no other numbers, not even Nick's. A blank slate, for her to fill. She'd felt like crying.

No one but Sean had called her yet, and she'd called no one. The contact list was still empty.

Juliette took a deep breath, made sure caller ID was suppressed, and entered her mother's number from memory.

Memory. It was all still there, who she'd been, how she'd felt. Her mother's voice was familiar, and it ached, even as part of her suddenly raged. She'd been closer to her grandma than either of her parents; what right had they to be alive when she wasn't?

Sean had been right, the other day. She felt different now, but not _less_. Quicker to anger, yes, ready to lash out where she'd lacked that instinct before, but more than that - everything was sharper, more fierce, more piercing.

Juliette swallowed. "Hola, mamá, soy yo," she managed, before the silence got too long. "No soy muerta."

She wanted to giggle at the absurd phrase, but instead forced out quick, vague non-explanations about her kidnapping - "Es complicado. No te puedo contar las detallas todavía", and "La policía lo está investigando" - and, finally, almost against her will, a blurted, "Solo quería hablar contigo" ...

Which, suddenly, unexpectedly, was the truth.

All through the chaos of the last months, when everything had gone down, when her life had collapsed on her, her parents had been the last thing on her mind. Even two days ago, she hadn't spared them a thought, hadn't remembered them at all until Bud had mentioned her funeral. Now ...

Yes, Sean had been right - whatever had changed in her, she did still care.

Juliette threw the phone down onto the bed and buried her face in her hands.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Juliette was staying.

Renard had been almost certain she'd be glad for an excuse to leave, even if she resented him for it at the same time. He'd been ready for it. He hadn't been ready for this.

And it seemed he'd have her help with Diana, too. Good. There was no more powerful protector than a Hexenbiest, save perhaps a Grimm. And she seemed to be good with the girl. 

Juliette was staying with him. Renard couldn't help the softness he felt at the thought. He hadn't wanted to give her up, but he'd never believed ...

Well. There was no telling how long this would last, or what would happen next. Much of it would depend on Nick. 

Renard stopped himself. That direction of thought was unproductive. It would take him nowhere.

He looked down at Diana, curled up on the sofa, taking a nap. What was going through his daughter's mind? She'd lost Kelly Burkhardt, who'd taken care of her all the life she could remember, had been taken by Kenneth and Juliette, been brought to the King, snatched from there by Meisner, and finally dumped here. Just today, she'd been in the custody of several different people. Meisner; Renard and Juliette; Adalind, Trubel and Nick. It couldn't be easy for her, no matter how unnaturally mature she might be.

He would have to give her security. Not merely protect her from would-be kidnappers, but give her a _home_ , something she'd never had before.

Something in his chest felt very heavy. It had been for the best, surely, that he'd sent her away. He'd had no other choice. But just now, looking at her beside him, he couldn't imagine how he'd given her up.

It had been the hardest choice he'd made, in a life not exactly devoid of hard choices.

But not again. With Kelly Burkhardt gone, with his mother out of touch for so long, there was no one else he'd trust with her. And when his mother surfaced again, some time from now, as she inevitably would - no. No, he wouldn't dislocate his daughter again. Not if he had any choice in the matter at all.

Still, he barely knew how to proceed. Protecting her from the Verrat was one thing, but what did he know about actually taking care of a child?

He'd have to learn. He had done harder things, for less reward.

First things first, though: keep her safe. Even if that meant taking a step he had so far avoided. But his father was dead; he had no more personal ties to the Royal side of his family.

Renard took his secure phone from his briefcase and dialed a number he'd acquired some time ago. When the connection was picked up he wasted no time on the niceties. "You have lost six agents in Portland in the last twenty-four hours. How many more, in the last few years?" In English, rather than German or French - a clue to his identity.

The silence on the other end lasted for a long, tense moment. "Who is this?"

"Have you checked the statistics? You might want to consider that your continued attempts at a presence in my city have never, in fact, been productive for you."

"Sean Renard." The senior Verrat official - not one of the seven Verrat leaders working for the Royal Houses, but an important figure in the organization's overall structure - had caught up.

Renard smiled darkly at himself and waited. Lukas Köhler was no fool; he would pick up on the rest quickly enough.

"You are of the House of Kronenberg," Köhler said. "You should have called your family's Verrat commander."

No fool indeed. "I don't recognize that House's authority," Renard said. Knowing how that statement would propagate, from Köhler to the Verrat leaders to the Royal Houses, and beyond. Knowing what it meant.

"Is that so." Despite the momentous statement, Köhler's reply managed to sound bland. An excellent actor.

"I said so." Renard matched Köhler's blandness. "Whatever the House of Kronenberg wishes is none of my concern. Stay away from my city."

"You claim sovereignty?" A note of shock was creeping into Köhler's voice after all.

"I do."

"I understand," Köhler said. "We'll take that under advisement."

"You do that." 

Renard ended the call as he had begun it, not bothering with polite phrases. He put the phone away, then sat back in his chair, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. He had done it.

What the Verrat's central council decided went above the heads of even the Royals' Verrat commanders, for the simple reason that the Verrat was an organization meant to serve the Royals as an institution - all of them - and must therefore be capable of preventing themselves being used up in quarrels between the different Families. A Royal's word was law to the Verrat - but only so long as it infringed on no other Family's word, which weighed equally heavy.

And Renard had just basically declared independence. A Royal prince announcing his own separate fiefdom, not beholden to any of the Families.

This would get the Verrat off his tail for the time being, or else start an outright war. There was a reason he'd never risked it before - not with his father alive. But with his family weakened, it was a different matter.

And no one else cared about Portland, after all.

Renard brushed his hand over Diana's sleeping head and allowed himself a grim smile. One way or another, he'd make this city safe for her.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Juliette stood by the foot of the stairs, arms crossed over her chest, glaring at him. Nick threw her a confused look. She'd been distinctly hostile since the moment he and Rosalee had arrived, and he couldn't figure out why. 

He almost regretted coming. But if they were going to use Rosalee's idea, Renard and Juliette had to know. He was the one who'd planned the raid, who decided on the timing, after all, and she -

Well.

Nick shifted on his feet uncomfortably, looking down at his son. Kelly was asleep again.

Finally, thankfully, Renard came down the stairs again, a small, unfamiliar smile on his face. He was carrying a babyphone in his hand. Nick's eyes caught on it. They were both fathers now.

"She's asleep," Renard said quietly.

"And so is this little guy," said Rosalee, smiling down at Nick's son.

"Please don't tell me you just left with the baby," Renard said, turning to Nick, eyebrows raised.

"Adalind was asleep. I left her a note." Nick shook his head. "And Trubel is there. She'll explain."

A thin smile. "If Adalind comes storming in here, don't be surprised."

Nick looked away. Renard wasn't wrong. But he'd talked to Adalind enough for one day. And, he admitted to himself, he hadn't wanted to ruin his good mood.

Tough luck: Juliette's welcome - or lack of same - had achieved that anyway.

At least Renard was solid as ever, unfazed by the late-night invasion.

Juliette, walked over, stiff-spined, her expression frozen into a mask. She looked down at the baby.

 _Here comes the evil fairy,_ Nick thought, feeling guilty almost immediately. No, she might hate Adalind, might hold any number of things against Nick, but surely she wouldn't blame an innocent baby for his parents' faults. 

_No child of hers is innocent,_ she'd said, once upon a time. But she'd just found out then; surely - _surely_ those weren't her true feelings, her true thoughts.

Juliette stood still for too long, simply looking down. She must be feeling the tension in the room, must know everyone's eyes were on her.

"Half Zauberbiest," she said eventually, her voice tightly controlled. "Is he going to be like you?" She threw a glance sideways at Renard, who had lifted his head at her words.

Nick breathed relief. 

Renard stepped up closer to Juliette, brushing a fingertip through the air just above the baby's sleeping face, not quite touching. Nick had to smile, warmth growing in his chest.

"Much too soon to tell," Renard said. "But I've never heard of a Grimm/Wesen hybrid."

"We might be looking at a Vorherrscher," Rosalee said calmly. "He might take after one side of his heritage entirely."

"Or it may simply be so rare, it hasn't been documented," Renard added. "We won't know for years."

Nick looked between them, his eyes catching briefly on Juliette. "He's going to have a lot of aunts and uncles to help him along, however he turns out." He hoped. Then he took a deep breath. "Okay, guys. I shouldn't stay too long." His eyes returned, irresistibly drawn, to the sleeping baby. "Let's get this over with. Rosalee?"

Rosalee looked down for a moment. "I've been thinking," she said, not sounding entirely happy. "About Chavez's people. What if they're not all at the base when you arrest them?"

Renard's eyebrows went up; then he shrugged. "There's nothing we can do about that."

"What if you could?" She grimaced, but met his eyes firmly. "I still do have those agents' phone number."

The ones who'd tried to buy illegal ingredients at the spice shop. _Hundjägers' noses._ Something in him hardened at the thought. _Never mind everything else - I'd get you for that alone,_ Nick thought harshly.

"And?" Renard seemed impatient.

Rosalee swallowed. "What if they could make that potion? And it told them Juliette was right there, on top of them." Her eyes were bright, intent. "Wouldn't they call all their people back?"

"Rosalee," Renard said darkly, "please don't tell me you actually do have Hundjäger noses."

She shook her head. "Of course not. But we don't need to let Chavez create a genuine locator potion; we only need a convincing fake." Rosalee looked down, then threw a considering look at Juliette. "I can do that. But Juliette would need to actually be there. They'll be using her blood, and there's no way to fake that."

Nick jerked around. "You didn't mention that part before."

Almost simultaneously Juliette turned to her, eyes narrowed. "You're talking about using me as bait."

Rosalee ignored Nick and met Juliette's eyes calmly. "It's an option. I thought I'd bring it up."

"No," said Nick, almost on reflex. _Damn you, Rosalee. Why didn't you tell me?_ Inevitably, Juliette looked mutinous. But then, she would have, before. His heart clenched. "It's too dangerous." And he didn't know what was going on with her right now.

"Not necessarily," Renard said, thoughtfully, and it didn't take long after that to settle on a new plan.

Nick's mouth pulled tight, but he didn't object any more, not after Renard and Juliette had both agreed. Which Rosalee had counted on, no doubt. She'd argued with Monroe over her own involvement - clearly she'd had no patience left for his version of the same debate. 

It _was_ a decent plan. And Juliette would always have agreed to it, Hexenbiest or no.

At least her powers made her considerably safer.

Suddenly a ringtone sounded, and Nick checked for his phone, watching Renard and Rosalee do the same. Not Juliette, though she knew she had a phone. Did anyone not in the room even have her number? 

Rosalee held up her phone to indicate it was the culprit, then put it to her ear. "What now?" she said quietly, not altogether friendly.

"Yes. Yes, we are," were her next words, a firm and determined answer to a question from - who? Monroe? They'd been fighting, after all. He hadn't wanted Rosalee to get involved with Chavez's people, and she'd told him off. 

_Monroe?_ Nick mouthed, and Rosalee gave him a quick nod. 

He watched as Rosalee's expression gradually softened. "Thank you," she said solemnly. "I knew you'd see sense eventually." And she broke into a relieved smile.

"Monroe, I'm putting you on speaker," she said eventually, and held up the phone on her palm.

 _"Hi!"_ Monroe's voice came. _"Who's there?"_

"We're at Sean's," Rosalee said. "It's just Sean, Nick, Juliette and me. And the baby."

 _"How's the little guy?"_ Monroe asked.

"Asleep," Nick threw in.

 _"Sorry about ... you know,"_ Monroe said, sounding sheepish. _"Rosalee's right, it's a good plan. And we've got to stick together when it comes to these jerks. She's right,"_ he said again.

Rosalee smiled down at the phone, but said nothing.

"Yeah," Nick said. "I get you, Monroe, trust me on that." He swallowed. Monroe and Rosalee had their fights, too. But they always managed to get over it, together.

Hell of a thing, to envy your best friends.

 _"See you tomorrow, guys. Rosalee ..."_ Monroe trailed off.

"You can make it up to me later," she promised. "I'm heading back soon." And she cut the call. Then she turned to Nick, then Renard. "One more thing," she said. "What about the Wesen Council?"

Nick, remembering the Manticore bounty hunter, snarled. That man had been trying to execute a Council hit on Nick, and had nearly killed Juliette too, just for the hell of it. He'd have liked to tear him apart for that.

Except that she'd got there first.

Beside him, Juliette let out an inarticulate, angry nose. They looked at each other, then away, uncomfortably finding themselves on the same page.

"The arrest will take place in the morning," Renard said. "After that, yes, we should inform them. The pressure they'll be able to put on Chavez and her superior will be invaluable."

"They're not exactly happy with us at the moment," Nick said, glaring. "And vice versa." He'd thought he'd managed to achieve some kind of understanding with the Wesen Council. Then they'd sent Maréchaussée after him. Damn them all to hell. 

"That's true. But they'll take my call, all the same," Rosalee said resolutely.

"No," Renard said. Everyone turned to him, and he continued, "I'll do it. No need to put you in the middle of this, Rosalee."

Rosalee gave a relieved smile. "I'd appreciate that."

~*~

Juliette stood next to Renard and watched as Nick and Rosalee filed toward the door. Nick could feel her eyes on his back. She hadn't said a word to him. He wished he knew how to reach out, to ask what had happened, where her renewed hostility had come from. 

Better not risk it, tonight.

In his baby carrier, Kelly stirred. Suddenly an ear-piercing wail emerged, and the procession came to a stop. Nick set down the carrier and lifted the baby into his arms. Small, fragile. And loud.

Rosalee tilted her head. "Nappies," she said succinctly, giving both of them a fond smile.

"You go," Nick said, bouncing the baby on his hip, trying to calm him. The wailing continued unabated. "I've got this."

Rosalee looked at Renard and Juliette, then back to Nick, her eyes unreadable. Finally she nodded briskly and left.

Nick turned toward Renard himself. "Do you mind if I ..."

"Be my guest."

Changing a baby needed only a flat surface, after all, and the couch table was as good a place as any. Nick managed reasonably well, considering his lack of practice. Better than the first time he'd tried, this afternoon. Finally he lifted the still-crying baby into his arms. The wailing had turned into more of a hiccoughing sob, and Nick's attempts to calm him clearly weren't working.

"Give him to me."

Nick's eyes snapped to Juliette, hardly believing what he'd heard. "Juliette?" he asked, hesitant.

She rolled her eyes and reached out, taking the baby from his arms. Nick's lips were a thin line, holding in anything he might say. Wordlessly, he let go, a small hope burning in his chest.

"There you are," she told the boy. "It's all right, baby boy. It's going to be all right." 

Nick had seen her calm countless animals, just like that - meaningless reassurance, backed up with body language. She'd been good at that, had had to be as a vet. It seemed to work on human babies as well. The baby finally started to quiet in her arms, and she smiled down on his little face.

Nick looked at her, astonished and grateful. "How ..."

"You're too tense," she told him. "He picks up on that. Try to relax, Nick."

"Easier said than done," he said wryly, but he held out his arms, ready to try.

Almost reluctantly she handed the boy back. "What are you calling him?"

It was only the baby in his arms, only his efforts to comfort his son, that prevented him from freezing entirely. _Damn._

"Kelly," he said, meeting her eyes, trying to project calm.

She flinched back as if he'd struck her. Her hands were clenched, and he could see the tension in every line of her body. "Your idea?" she asked tightly.

He looked away, knowing she'd take it for the answer it was. What could he say?

It was a good name. He _wanted_ his son to have his mother's name. It felt right. And yet ...

"Keep a good eye on this one," she said harshly. "Or you won't have him for long. Particularly with Diana also in reach."

And they were on that subject again. "I won't risk my son." _Can't you trust me on that?_ He threw a pleading look at her; she answered it with a glare. Clearly she couldn't. Her eyes were narrowed, and her face was pinched. 

"If you think she won't, you're deluding yourself. Or letting her delude you."

Fixated. Damn. He put Kelly back into his carrier before his own rising anger could agitate the baby again.

Juliette snarled, then woged at him, her face turning dark and withered and brittle. He didn't flinch, didn't look away - didn't have to. Not this time. She didn't seem to even notice.

Her Hexenbiest face held the same ugly look her human one had. Then she shook her head, and looked human again. It made no difference.

What did it matter, being able to look at her, when what he saw was this? 

"Why is it," she asked, contemptuously, breathing harshly, "that you can overlook just about everything for _her_ , give her the benefit of the doubt, after everything she did? When you never managed it for me?"

"That isn't how it happened," he said, helplessly furious. "I tried! I'm still trying. And none of that has anything to do with Adalind. So just -" He swallowed, with difficulty. "Just don't. Can you for _one single minute_ stop obsessing over Adalind?"

"Stop," Renard said, calmly, firmly. "Both of you."

His voice pierced the bubble of building violence seething in Nick's belly, and Nick stood, taking a shuddering breath, fighting for self-control. He gave Renard a grateful look.

Juliette's eyes flickered between the two of them. She took a step back, then another. 

"You two. Why am I even talking to you?" Quiet, dangerous. Everything about her was dark, sharp-edged, venomous. "I _hope_ she steals your babies," she hissed. "You deserve it. Both of you." 

And she turned her back on both of them - not to stomp upstairs, as he might have expected, but through a side door instead. It slammed loudly shut behind her.

~*~

"She doesn't mean it," Renard said eventually.

Nick tore his eyes away from the closed door. "Are you sure?" Bitterly.

"Surprisingly, yes." Renard's eyes went distant for a moment. "She's had a trying day. We all have."

"Yeah," Nick managed, voice rough. "You could say that." He fought for control. 

Miraculously, the baby hadn't started crying again; in fact, Kelly seemed to have fallen back asleep. Nick thought of Juliette effortlessly calming his son. How had things degraded so quickly again?

No. He couldn't -

He had to turn away. Struggling to control his breathing, Nick stood in front of the French doors, eyes clenched tight. "Sorry," he forced out after a moment. "I won't punch your wall this time."

"Please don't." Renard, damn him, sounded almost amused. "Diana blew up the side table earlier. I've had my share of destruction for the day."

Nick turned around, blinked at the now-empty place where Renard's side table and its alcoholic contents had been. How had he not noticed it was missing? "Is she okay?"

Renard smiled, fond and almost proud. "Only property damage," he assured him. "Her powers seem to protect her, thankfully."

"Good," Nick said, "that's good."

A hand on his shoulder. Renard stood in front of him, sympathy in the soft crinkles around his eyes, the wistful curve of his lips. The touch burned. Nick seemed aware of it with every inch of his body, all of it turned toward that spot of contact. Drawn, compelled, helplessly seeking, Nick leaned forward, resting his forehead against Renard's shoulder.

After a moment - just before he could pull back in flushed, embarrassed reaction, suddenly too aware of where he was, what he was doing - Renard's arms came up around him. 

The tension went out of him like cutting a string. Nick let go, let himself be held, and his body ached, trembling as if relieved from a great load. God, when was the last time he'd let himself lean on someone? 

Renard held him, firm and steady. He said nothing, offered no facile reassurances, only his body's support.

Finally Nick pulled back a little. "I'm okay," he said softly. Their faces were close, almost touching. He didn't let himself think about it.

"Are you?" Renard's right hand came up, cupped the side of his face. Held him in place, to be examined. 

Nick felt redness creep over his face, his neck, down his chest. "Yeah," he managed, hoarsely, "yeah," and before he could do something unforgivable, something he wouldn't be able to take back, he tore himself away. Walked back over to the couch and his son. Hesitated.

No. He couldn't just leave, not like that.

"Listen," he said, turning back to Renard, who was eyeing him with an expression that had lost its softness, that was entirely bland now. "I'm going to take parental leave." 

Damn, that wasn't what he'd meant to say. 

"Are you." The same words as before; a very different tone. Distant, clinical. Then, "Yes. That's a good idea. I have to admit I envy you." A small smile warmed Renard's face again.

And then Nick knew what he needed to say, after all. He took a step closer again, not quite into Renard's space but close enough that he had to look up to meet Renard's eyes. "Look," he said quietly, "maybe this is out of line, but I know you're worried about Diana. I can help if you let me."

A startled blink. "You're already helping." Renard tilted his head, quizzically. "And I know you'll take care of any Verrat that come your way."

"That's not what I meant," he said seriously. "I can watch her, you know. At least while I'm on parental leave. You don't need to risk looking for babysitters." 

Juliette might be living in Renard's house, but even setting aside her venomous last words just now - even if Renard was right that she didn't mean them - even if, miraculously, she were willing to help - some things were simply too much to ask.

Full-time daycare of a Renard's child would be too much to ask of anyone.

Renard looked away. "You have a son, Nick. Taking care of a baby will take up enough of your time."

"Other people manage." He could figure it out. He couldn't say to Renard, _I don't want to lose you_ \- how could you lose something you'd never had? But he could do this much for him, offer him a safe place for his daughter, with someone he trusted.

Unless ...

"Do you trust me with Diana?" Nick finally asked, bluntly. Damn it, he _wanted_ Renard to trust him with his daughter, with this piece of his heart - wanted it with a frightening intensity.

Renard startled. "No, Nick, I fully expect you to put her up on eBay. One Royal bastard, going cheap." He snorted, then shook his head. "I appreciate the offer. I can't deny it would be a great relief. But that would be asking too much."

Echoing Nick's own thoughts.

"No," Nick insisted. "It wouldn't. Besides, you didn't ask. I offered."

Renard considered him for a long time, eyes narrowed. Finally he gave a small nod. "If you're sure."

The relief sweeping through Nick's chest seemed out of proportion. He smiled, and after a moment, Renard smiled back at him.

"Thank you," Renard said. "Truly. This means a lot to me, Nick."

 _Not just to you,_ Nick thought. _Not just to you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> "Hola, mamá, soy yo. No soy muerta." = "Hey, mom, it's me. I'm not dead."  
> "Es complicado. No te puedo contar las detallas todavía." = "It's complicated. I can't tell you the details yet."  
> "La policía lo está investigando." = "The police are working on it."  
> "Solo quería hablar contigo." = "I just wanted to talk to you."


	14. Chapter 13

"They just left." Rosalee's voice was tight; Juliette could easily imagine the pinched face, the twitch of her nose that went with the tone. "The same two, and they should be on their way back now."

It was still before dawn, the sky only just beginning to lighten in the east. In the shadows of a building one block over from the target, a night club now closed for the day, Juliette's fingers tightened around the phone at her ear. "I'll be ready."

"Okay. I'll let the others know." Rosalee hesitated briefly. "Juliette? Be careful."

Juliette bristled. "I won't let them get me again," she snapped. There was silence on the other end of the line, and Juliette clenched her teeth. Rosalee had reached out, and she'd jumped down her throat, purely by reflex. "Sorry," she forced out, and, "Thanks, Rosalee."

"Good luck," Rosalee offered, distant and careful, and hung up.

Rosalee had been her friend once. But the woman Rosalee had befriended had been someone who hadn't done the things Juliette had. And the woman Juliette had once liked hadn't yet tried to take from her what Rosalee had tried to take. What was there left to say between them?

Juliette put the phone back in her pocket and took a deep breath.

Chavez's people were no doubt more scrupulous about their security now, considering how easily they'd lost their prisoner before. Juliette would have to be careful. But she'd chosen her hiding place well. If it took that long, morning's long shadows would hide her here even after the sun came up and illuminated the building she was watching.

In the darkness, a shadow among shadows, Juliette sat down on the step of a fire exit and settled in to wait.

~*~

Juliette spotted the two agents coming back from Rosalee's only because she was watching carefully. They were being cautious, with good reason, but not cautious enough.

Inside, Chavez's apothecary would already be preparing the potion that would track her. Not long now.

 _You're in for a surprise,_ Juliette thought viciously. _Wish I could see your faces._

Dawn had not yet broken when her phone vibrated again in her pocket. She pulled it out, allowed herself a grimace at Nick's name - she'd entered him into her contacts, after all - and picked up. "Yes," she said tersely.

"Chavez just called Trubel." Nick's voice was equally tight, and he didn't waste time with a greeting either. "She's called her in. Everything's going to plan."

Which meant the potion had been made, and had worked as advertised. Chavez knew Juliette was close. And Trubel, according to plan, would have told her something along the lines of, _Oh my god, she's there? She's coming for you? I'm on my way!_

Of course they'd called in all their people. To make sure they wouldn't be taken unawares - and to lie prepared for the attack they were anticipating. 

Resolutely not thinking about Trubel, or the tone of voice she could imagine so vividly, Juliette amused herself with the idea of her former captors anxiously securing their building, waiting for Juliette to attack. The locator potion couldn't pinpoint its target precisely enough, and they wouldn't risk going out to search a neighboring building, not when they were sure Juliette was coming for them. Not when a trap was so much simpler, so much safer for them.

Not when they thought they were ahead of things for once.

"Okay," she told Nick. "I'm on the move." He quickly hung up again, and she wondered uncomfortably why he'd called her in person, rather that simply texting. The same for Rosalee. Wouldn't that have been easier, all around?

She didn't understand Nick at all, Juliette thought as she circled around the back of the night club, to the next road over, crossing out of sight of the target. The night before, he'd looked so _hurt_ , as if she'd done something to him, as if he hadn't been the one to hug her like that, to prove just how hard he could try for others, but not for her. Never for her.

Would it hurt so much if she didn't still _want_ that?

And - all right, she'd been out of line with what she'd said about the children, she knew that. She knew. But she'd been so angry, and she'd wanted to hurt him, the way she was hurting. Sean, too, for not taking her side. For being, what, involved with Nick? She had no idea what was going on between the two of them, but there was an almost visible line strung between the two of them, tying them together in ways she didn't understand.

Didn't want to understand.

Damn it, she'd have to face both of them later this morning, at the precinct. If only she could simply hide instead.

Sean had said nothing about her outburst. She hadn't given him much of a choice last night, staying downstairs, but if he'd been angry, surely he would have come after her? 

Perhaps he was angry enough not to. She shivered. _Damn._

The sun was just rising above the horizon, the first sunbeams slanting across the city, when she reached the back of a different building, across a different road from the target. Juliette stood pressed against the concrete wall and looked up. Pulling down the lower part of the fire ladder would make a noise. 

But she was a Hexenbiest. With her telekinesis to aid her, it was a simple jump.

~*~

Juliette had never seen her prison from the outside. When she'd been taken there she'd been unconscious, knocked out by the poison Trubel had shot into her. And when Nick and Sean had broken her out, it had been night, blacker than usual under a sheet of rain, and all she remembered of their escape was an impression of water on asphalt and concrete, and the interior of a car.

God, had that really only been four days ago? It seemed a world away, and a lifetime. But it was still only Friday morning.

Now she lay flat on a graveled roof, one building over, keeping careful watch. Juliette was glad this roof at least had decent drainage; on some of the surrounding ones she could still see puddles from the past days' rain.

The building across seemed terribly mundane now, for a prison. A gutted former shopping center, standard prefab-style with no redeeming features; a building site with stacks of materials. Nothing special. And with the cage that had held her destroyed, nothing she couldn't handle.

It would be easy to just go over there, before the police arrived. It would feel so good - to rip through the people who had dared hold her captive, to slam them into walls, to break their necks with no effort at all. To leave nothing in her wake but death and destruction. She could be gone long before anyone realized. She could go anywhere, and with her powers, it would be easy to take whatever she wanted, live however she liked.

And yet.

She could have done just that any day, couldn't she? This whole week, right from the moment Sean had burned down the magical cage that had confined her. She could have taken her enemies _down_ , starting right there with Nick and Sean, moving on to Chavez and Trubel and every other person in the building. Or she should have gone back afterwards, once she'd had time to get over the shock of seeing these two men come for her, free her, with no bargaining and no conditions, knowing what she could do. 

She could have, but she hadn't.

Instead, she'd been playing house with Sean, had flown off the handle more times than she could count, had pointlessly lashed out at everyone, had tried threats and seduction and, finally, sincerity. She'd called her _mother_ , for god's sake. Because she didn't want to be that woman.

And staying with Sean - arguments and understanding, lashing out and reaching out, cruel truths and uncertain comfort and all - had shown her she didn't have to be.

The night before, after she'd blown up at Nick and Sean again, she'd stomped downstairs and not come up again. She'd been hiding, she knew it. Trying not to think, not to face what she'd said. 

_I hope she steals your babies._ Juliette shivered at the memory of her own cruel voice.

She'd furiously attacked the job of making the unused suite ready for human habitation, had lost herself in the sheer physical repetitiveness of cleaning. And when she'd finally had to surface again in the morning, Sean had acted as if nothing had happened. With Diana there, watching, seeing too much, she hadn't dared confront him.

_Damn, damn, damn._

She _liked_ being an unstoppable force, but she wanted to be a force under her own control, not simply raging wild, not a storm of fury easily pointed at any target by whoever knew to manipulate her.

No, she'd never wanted to be that woman. She'd known it the moment Kenneth had come back inside spattered with Kelly Burkhardt's blood. It had hit her like a physical force, stopping her dead as she began to understand just what she'd done. She'd known it, sitting in the back of a car, Diana's hand in hers, listening to Kenneth calmly ordering Nick's death. Finally realizing just how she'd let herself be used. _No._

She'd felt frozen in place, and then, forced to stand still long enough to see what she'd turned into, she'd known she couldn't keep going, not like this.

She'd gone back to the house - Nick's house, _her_ house - desperate to end it somehow. Death would do, or else wiping away every last trace of her old life, so she wouldn't have to _feel_ so much, so she could think clearly again. Either way, she'd known it had to end, then and there - she couldn't be who she'd become. She didn't _want_ to.

Death or destruction. Instead she'd found a third option, and it was harder than either. So hard, not to be the storm she could be, to be the still centre instead, to hold herself in balance. She understood Henrietta's poise so much better now, and Elizabeth's. If either of them were here ...

But no. Some things, she suspected, you could only find within yourself. Sean had given her a haven, a safe place to start from, and Nick and his friends had given her the chance to do something with it, something other than what she'd done before. 

She'd only just started trying to find out what that might be. But she was here, sitting still, playing decoy, and not sweeping through the building across in a storm of splinters, leaving destruction behind.

She was here. And she could do this.

~*~

They'd timed things well; after Juliette had reached her new vantage point it wasn't long until the police arrived.

Juliette pressed herself down smaller, making certain she wouldn't be seen. She could almost feel the frantic activity in the building across. At one point she thought she heard distant shouting, muffled gunshots. Then two armored officers led out a handcuffed man in a suit. It was almost anticlimactic. One down, six to go.

She watched, perfectly still, perfectly hidden, as one by one, her captors were led outside. Two. Three. Four and five. And there ... number six was Chavez herself. Juliette felt herself smirk, savagely pleased.

When her phone vibrated again, she knew it was over - had seen every last one of her captors arrested, led off to waiting police cars in handcuffs. The forensics people were arriving now. It would be interesting to see what they'd make of what they found.

"Yes," she answered the phone again, tersely. Another number in her contacts list, filling up again.

"We're done," Hank said, sounding grimly satisfied. "We're heading back to the precinct now." After a pause he added, something strange in his voice, "You okay?"

Juliette blinked. Where had that come from, all of a sudden? "Why?"

"We saw that cage, you know. Hell of a thing. They really kept you in there for nearly a week?"

Sympathy, now. _Now._ Something in her clutched at it; another part wanted to reject it, to throw it back into Hank's face with a reminder just how much too little, too late it was. "I'm fine," was all she said in the end, clamping down firmly on both reactions. She couldn't. She didn't want to. "See you at the precinct."

"Wait," Hank interrupted her before she could hang up. "You should know, when we arrested her Chavez tried to claim they were there on some FBI manhunt. Hunting a dangerous criminal."

Juliette's stomach clenched. "Let her try and prove it," she managed, tersely. Chavez hadn't even been lying. Or had she? Just how much of what Juliette had done did she know? Perhaps nothing.

She hoped.

"Didn't fly, anyway," Hank said grimly. "Not after we'd found that cage. Pretty sure kidnapping criminals is still illegal in this country."

Ah. Juliette forced herself to take a calming breath, but her throat remained tight. Hank hadn't meant it as a jab ... probably. And things were coming together now. Whatever story Chavez made up, the forensic evidence was there. 

_You just try and explain_ that _away._

Perhaps the truth, however partial, could set Juliette free.

  
  


* * *

  
  


When Juliette finally walked into the precinct, Nick breathed lighter.

He'd been on pins and needles the entire morning, ever since Rosalee had let him know Chavez's people had been and gone. He'd sat with Trubel until she'd answered Chavez's call, then passed it on to Juliette on the way to the precinct. There, he'd followed the raid's progress as closely as he'd been allowed until the arrested FBI agents had been brought in. 

But it was Juliette he'd been waiting for. And for the first time in much too long, he greeted the sight of her with unmitigated relief. 

She was safe. She was well. She was playing her part perfectly.

Nick was still furious at her for last night. She'd known how to hit exactly where it would hurt most. Her rage, her cruelty, her viciousness - in those moments, he'd barely recognized her.

Yet here she was, in control after all, _Juliette_ after all, and he couldn't help it - something inside him softened at the sight. Nick cursed himself, and was glad Renard immediately led her off to identify her captors. Facing her would be painful. Not saying the wrong thing would be hard.

Harder, with everyone's eyes on them. Bad enough that everyone knew he had a newborn baby with another woman; bad enough half the precinct had witnessed that awful confrontation between Juliette and Adalind, months ago. And to top it all off, the news that Nick was going to take parental leave had somehow made it to the grapevine.

Judgment, all around. He'd have some serious mending to do. Guiltily, Nick felt glad that twelve weeks' leave put that difficult work out of sight for now.

Of course that time would give the judgment time to settle in. That wouldn't make it easier. And yet.

When Juliette came into the bullpen again, she was holding on tightly to Renard's arm, and she seemed - even to Nick's eyes, looking for the artifice beneath - genuinely shaken. Angry, yes, but for once not with the wild, sharp-edged fury of the Hexenbiest. Something more fragile than that: the kind of helpless anger that might lead to a crying jag rather than an explosion of violence.

Hank and Detective Aarons, who were taking point on this investigation, intercepted Renard and Juliette on the way to his office.

Abruptly, Nick rose from his desk and went over. Juliette gave him a shaky smile; Renard acknowledged him with a nod. Hank and Aarons - a short, stocky woman with a dark ponytail - murmured a greeting.

"Juliette, are you okay?" Nick asked, reaching out for her, touching her briefly on the shoulder. She accepted it, leaned into it a little, even, though she still clung to Renard's arm. A world away from her vicious words last night ... but not real. He wished it could be, but they were only following the script.

After a moment she nodded. "I just need a minute."

Renard smiled down at her, gently. "You can sit down in my office for a while. I'll be with you in a moment. Is that all right?"

She nodded at him, gratefully. With a weak smile at everyone, she finally let go of Renard and made her way to his office. Nick watched her go, then turned to Hank.

"Are you going to interrogate them now?" he asked sharply.

Hank and Aarons shared a look. 

"Yeah," Hank said, eyes pitying. "In a minute. You don't look so good, Nick. Maybe you should sit down a bit yourself."

"No. I want to hear this." It was a low, harsh demand, but in a voice that carried. Another necessary public performance that was all too real, underneath. Nick hated the way the lines were blurring. No choice, though. None at all.

Renard regarded him thoughtfully, eyes narrowed, the corners of his mouth turned down. "Very well," he said eventually, seemingly reluctantly. "You can watch through the mirror. But you stay there, understand? I don't need you to foul up this case."

Nick scowled, darkly. "Don't worry," he growled. "That's the last thing I want."

After a moment, Renard nodded sharply. "Go on, then." A jerk of his head indicated the direction of the interrogation room reserved for Chavez. "Good luck, detectives.

~*~

"Everyone settled?" Nick asked Hank under his breath as they walked towards the observation chamber.

"All cooling their heels down in the cells," Hank answered. "They seem a little confused. I suppose no one told them that if they break the law, the police may come after them."

"Shocking," Aaron threw in, her expression dark. She'd been unsure about Juliette's accusations at first, Nick knew. Galling, though not exactly shocking, considering how much of the truth they'd had to leave out. But it seemed seeing that place for herself - seeing the cage Juliette had been kept in - had wiped Aaron's doubts away.

Good.

They couldn't get Chavez and her people for the Hundjäger noses and the Hexenbiest blood, but they could damn well get her for this. Chavez was going down for exactly what she'd actually done. 

If only there wasn't such a divide between human law and the world of Wesen and Grimms.

As they entered the chamber, Nick jerked his thoughts back into the present. He looked through the mirror into the interrogation room, where Chavez was sitting, cuffed to the table. His hands clenched into fists, and he took a step closer to the mirror, glaring.

"Nick?" Hank said, stepping toward the door. "We're going in now. Keep your temper, all right?" 

Nick nodded tightly, and Aarons threw him a sympathetic glance. "Nail her," he snarled.

Aarons flashed him a sharp smile, and Hank nodded. Then they were gone, and through the glass, Nick watched the two detectives file into the interrogation room. Chavez's head came up slowly; she looked alert and aware, with no uncertainty at all. Somehow still sure of herself, as if she knew she'd get out of this.

"Katrina Chavez," Hank said, sitting down opposite her, back to the mirror, and waved a folder in her direction. "So you really are an FBI agent. Boy, are your superiors going to be happy."

"Home invasion, kidnapping, false imprisonment," Aarons listed. "Not to mention whatever kind of fraud it is when you fake someone else's death."

"Under the circumstances I think it's safe to assume you're the one who faked Juliette Silverton's death," Hank added. He tilted his head, all patient curiosity. "Out of interest, how did you do that? Who's really buried in her grave?"

The exhumation was set to happen today, Nick knew. His stomach wanted to turn upside down, remembering. Just whose body had he held, that long night, whose corpse had received his tears, his kisses, his despair? 

Chavez's head nodded forward and tilted, and suddenly it was her Steinadler face instead. With birdlike head-turns, she assessed the two detectives opposite her. When neither of them woged in return, or turned out to have a Grimm's eyes, her features turned human again.

Behind the mirror, Nick smiled darkly. He'd met Chavez back when she'd been investigating the Captain's shooting, and he hadn't been a Grimm then. She was in for a nasty surprise.

"This is a FBI investigation," Chavez said eventually, face inscrutable. "You're meddling in things you don't understand."

"Really? That's what you're going for?" Detective Aarons said, disgust plain in her voice. 

"What's there to understand?" Hank added. "You kidnapped a woman and held her in an abandoned building. Nothing in the FBI's mandate about that."

"We found the cage you kept her in," Aarons continued. Smoothly trading off with Hank - very well done, Nick thought. "A cot, a chemical toilet, a half-empty water bottle. With the evidence we've got, we don't even need a motive." 

Hank leaned forward, and even though Nick couldn't see his face, Nick was sure he was smiling. "Want to tell us what the hell you thought you were doing anyway?"

Chavez merely scowled. "While you're playing your little power game, a very dangerous woman is out there, walking free."

"Dangerous?" Hank asked sharply. "What did she do?"

Chavez said nothing.

"Come on," Hank prompted. "If she's so dangerous, shouldn't you warn us?"

But of course Chavez couldn't tell them that Juliette was a Hexenbiest. If she truly believed Juliette was dangerous - and you couldn't blame her for that - she must be very frustrated right now, being faced with two Kehrseite officers who were standing in her way, understanding nothing of what was going on.

Good.

Good, because _damn_ her. Whatever she might or might not believe - none of that excused what she'd done.

Hank sighed. "Nothing?" 

"Let's say we believe you. Let's say you were after someone dangerous." Aarons put an elbow on the table, propped her chin on her hand. Her ponytail bobbed. "Is that how you do things, with the FBI? Kidnapping and all?" she asked, fake-brightly. "Because if that's what you're saying, you've got a whole new set of problems.

Hank leaned back and lifted one hand, palm up. "FBI agents involved in kidnapping and false imprisonment - major scandal." He lifted the other hand. "FBI agent claims kidnapping and false imprisonment regular FBI procedure - even more major scandal." He tapped the badge he wore around his neck with a finger. "Call me naïve, but around here we believe in something called due process."

Chavez crossed her legs, sat back in her chair, and pressed her lips together. Her face remained closed; she gave nothing away.

Nick's stomach was tight. He clenched and unclenched his hands, trying to dispel some of his tension. He wanted to punch Chavez in the face, wanted to make her woge, make her see his eyes ...

Due process, ha. Nick remembered every Wesen criminal he'd gone after as a Grimm, not a detective. The ones he hadn't been able to stop the legal way, yes, but ...

Every threat he'd made, knowing his eyes were enough for intimidation. Every half-truth in his reports. Every Reaper and Verrat agent he'd taken down. 

Kenneth's blood on the concrete, Nick's blade sliding into Kenneth's neck.

 _What hypocrites we've become._

"Nothing to say?" Detective Aarons asked. "I suppose then the evidence will have to speak for itself."

"I'm waiting for my lawyer," Chavez returned calmly. "I have nothing more to say to you."

~*~

"Yes," Renard called in response to Hank's quick rap on the glass.

Hank opened the door, and they filed in - Hank, Aarons, and finally Nick, his thoughts a whirlpool of fury, guilt and determination. 

Renard was behind his desk, laptop open; Juliette was sitting opposite him, hands clenched together in her lap.

"Detectives." Renard gave a quick, prompting nod.

"Chavez isn't giving a thing away," Aarons reported with a roll of her eyes, "other than the same _FBI investigation_ spiel she already gave us on arrest. I'd say we move on to the others first."

Hank shrugged. "I didn't expect her to just spill," he said. "But she's very controlled. Not a twitch out of place. Maybe ..." He looked at Juliette, who swallowed visibly.

That was the plan: confront Chavez with Juliette, supposedly to try and shake a confession out of her, but in truth as a cover, so they could talk to her in private, about the things that couldn't be said in front of other officers.

"You can change your mind on this, Ms. Silverton," Aarons said gently.

Juliette bit her lips and shook her head. Nick had never hated her acting more.

Renard stood up and walked over to her, put a hand on her shoulder. "Are you certain?"

Juliette managed a brave face. "I want to look her in the face and hear what she says. I need to."

Renard nodded. "I'll go in with you." 

"I'll watch," Nick said tightly.

Renard's eyes rested on Nick for a moment, heavy with meaning; then he nodded. "Very well."

Aarons cut in, hesitantly. "Ms. Silverton, if you'd rather we ..."

Juliette shook her head. Her hand closed around Renard's, holding on tightly. "Sean's been a good friend, and Nick ..." She managed a smile. "It'll be all right. Just give me a moment to prepare."

"Griffin, Aarons, I'll let you know what comes of it," Renard promised. "You go - maybe one of the others has something to say."

Aarons smiled briefly. "Thanks, Captain."

When Hank and Aarons had left, Renard turned to Nick. "Anything to add?" he asked, even as Juliette let go of his hand and pulled out from under it. She stood, putting some distance between them.

Of course, Nick thought. Vulnerable for the audience, standoffish at best without. He looked at Renard instead, who was waiting for an answer, and shook his head. "Chavez still thinks she'd dealing with Kehrseite police being played by a Hexenbiest."

"She'll learn better soon," Renard promised darkly, and they smirked at each other, both looking forward to the moment, finding satisfaction in the prospect.

It felt good. Having Renard at his back always felt good.

Nick didn't let himself examine the thought too closely, forced his attention back on topic. There was something that wasn't quite adding up about Chavez. "She has to know the evidence is damning," he said slowly. "And yet she keeps claiming she was doing FBI work."

"Going after a criminal." Juliette's voice was hard. "That's what she's saying, isn't she."

Nick turned to look at her. Here in Renard's office, behind closed blinds, with no outsiders present, Juliette had no role to play. Her face was cold, and her eyes glittered. She was leaning against the wall, and her entire posture said _unforgiving_.

Was it his imagination that there seemed to be something else beneath?

"Well, she's one to talk," Nick dismissed the accusation.

"But I am, aren't I?" Juliette's eyes were burning into him. He had no idea what she was thinking, what she wanted from him. What that question had been. Accusation? Admission? Challenge?

Under the weight of her gaze Nick felt his shoulders draw up, and he forced himself to straighten. _Murderer,_ Renard's voice echoed in his mind. And worse, a murderer who'd made police officers, made this very precinct, into his accomplices. 

"Aren't we all," he muttered.

Juliette's eyes went wide. "You -" She broke off, as if she'd suddenly lost track of what she was going to say.

"Much as I appreciate the fact that you have a conscience - both of you," Renard interrupted sardonically, "this isn't the time for that discussion. We have a kidnapper to deal with."

Nick's stomach clenched. "Some fine hypocrites we are," he muttered, repeating his earlier thought.

Renard looked at him, exasperated. "You can't turn back into what you were." A sideways look at Juliette. "Neither of you can. If you don't like the place you find yourself in, the only way out is forward."

Nick stepped forward. "Is that how you do it?"

Juliette's eyes seemed glued to them both, but she said nothing.

"It's the only way." Renard shook his head ruefully. Then his face was suddenly very controlled. His back had straightened, and every minuscule move was deliberate. "Don't you think I wouldn't prefer not to spend half my time here covering up the truth, rather than bringing it to light? There's only so much we can do." 

Nick flinched. He'd almost forgotten, in his indictment of himself, that he wasn't the only one in that boat. And not just because Hank and Wu and, yes, Renard too, had helped Nick every step of the way. Renard was no innocent; Nick knew that. But the deeds that would be freshest on his mind, that would weigh the heaviest, would be the ones he hadn't chosen.

Not a month ago, Renard's body had been possessed by Jack the Ripper; Renard's hands had been used to murder three women, one of them his friend. He'd been forced to cover up that truth, too. Had anyone ever checked how he was dealing with that experience? Had anyone ever asked if he was all right? 

Nick looked away, guiltily. He certainly hadn't.

"Yeah," he muttered. "Sorry." When his eyes flickered briefly to Juliette, their gaze met, and they both flinched away.

Too much truth. It hurt.

Renard sighed. "Chavez," he reminded them, and the artificial control fell away in favor of something more real, something more like his usual composure. "Yes, you're right, she must know perfectly well what this looks like, to a Kehrseite cop. Don't read too much into her claims. She's probably fishing, trying to find out what the case against her will be. It'll do her no good."

Nick was glad to see Renard look normal again, and his calm confidence was a balm. "Not this time," he agreed.

"And if she thinks her boss will be able to sweep this under the rug ..." Renard trailed off with a smirk. He pulled out his phone and showed the screen to Nick for a moment, then to Juliette. It was the email to the Wesen Council they'd discussed. "Time to step this up." Nick nodded grimly, and Renard hit _send_. His eyes still on Nick, he dialed a number and waited for the call to connect. Then, "Captain Sean Renard, Portland PD. Consider this a courtesy call ..."

Nick listened with satisfaction as Renard talked to Chavez's superior, barely letting the man get a word in edgewise. Across the office, Juliette seemed just as darkly pleased. Nick tried a smile in her direction, but all she gave him was a baffled look.

When he put his phone down, Renard flashed his teeth in a shark-like smile. Turning between both of them, he said, "Now let's talk to our wayward agent ... properly, shall we?"


	15. Chapter 14

Juliette came to an abrupt stop, and Nick nearly bumped into her. When he stepped around her, he saw her staring at Chavez through the mirror with burning eyes. A tremor seemed to run through her body. Then she moved forward, up close to the mirror, her eyebrows narrowed as if she were trying to drill a hole through it with her eyes.

Nick exchanged a look with Renard behind her back. Identifying her captors had shaken Juliette; just looking at Chavez now was obviously difficult. What would facing Chavez in person do to her? Would she lose control of her anger again?

Somehow he didn't think so, and Renard's expression, the small quirk of his lip, told him Renard didn't either. They'd considered the risk when they'd made their plan, and Juliette had promised she'd rein herself in. Nick believed it, right now. But there was worse than anger.

What if she broke down, fell apart? The dull ache in Nick's stomach threatened to climb out of his throat at the thought, at the shameful realization that he hadn't even considered the possibility before. What did that make him? Nothing good. Definitely nothing good.

He wanted to touch her, to comfort her, but he knew he couldn't. He'd never managed, not once since she'd become a Hexenbiest. Instead he raised his eyebrows at Renard, tilted his head toward Juliette.

A strange expression flickered over Renard's face, there and gone again; then he followed the prompt. "Juliette," he said quietly, moving closer to her, his hand closing over her shoulder. She shivered visibly. And there was no audience now; there could be no doubt this was real. Nick hated himself for even questioning it. What had happened between them, that every feeling, every reaction had become suspect?

"I can do this," Juliette said flatly. 

"I know you can." Renard squeezed her shoulder a little, leaning forward, head tilted down toward her. "But you don't have to. We can do this without -"

"No," she interrupted, and took a deep, shuddering breath. "No, I want to do this. I want to woge in her face and see ..."

Her voice had turned vicious, but it still broke at the end. It hurt to hear. Nick's hands itched to reach out; he balled them into fists instead. His stomach and chest felt knotted tightly. He hated his helplessness. It was Renard who kept holding her, who supported her, and Nick watched, grateful and jealous and more, too many feelings he couldn't put a name to warring in his gut. Nick clenched his fists tighter, fingernails digging into his palm against the hurt.

Finally Juliette turned under Renard's hands, looking up into his face. "Nick's going first anyway," she said quietly. "I'll be fine."

Would she be? And why hadn't he considered this? Never mind that it was Juliette; why hadn't an experienced police officer like him ever considered just how traumatizing her captivity must have been? Had he really thought Juliette so completely beyond human feeling? 

Chavez certainly had. He remembered the interrogation attempts he'd listened in on. _Chavez_ had had no doubt there was nothing human left in Juliette. A wave of fury crashed over him, and he burned with the urge to shake her and make he _sorry_. He forced it down.

After a moment Renard nodded at Juliette, then looked over to Nick. "All right," he said, "let's do this."

"Yeah," Nick agreed. It came out hoarse. 

He started toward the door, but Renard was next to him in an instant, gripping him by the forearm, holding him in place.

"Remember we don't actually _need_ her to say anything," Renard said, low and insistent. "We don't need her to apologize, we don't need her to sign a confession. When it comes right down to it, we don't need anything from her at all."

Nick stomped down hard on his anger. The captain was right. The case against Chavez was solid, the evidence indisputable. If they didn't get a single thing more from her, she was still going down. But it was hard to remember, seeing Juliette so shaken, seeing Chavez sitting in there nonchalant and bored. 

"Yeah," he said again, swallowing harshly, swallowing it all down. "I know."

His eyes met Renard's, and he endured the man's scrutiny, knowing the captain saw through him, saw it all. Finally Renard gave him a small nod and let him go.

~*~

Chavez's head jerked around when Nick came in. Surprise turned to bafflement when she recognized him; then her face closed up again.

"Agent Chavez," Nick greeted her, managing a bland tone. "Not the circumstances I thought I'd be meeting you in again."

Chavez said nothing, but woged in frustration, the first sign of genuine emotion he'd seen from her. Her bird's face looked narrow and pinched - and then she reared back in shock. She was seeing his eyes. A Grimm's eyes. Nick gave her a thin smile.

Her woge fell away like blood draining from her cheeks. Her eyes went wide and a little frightened. "You're ..." A sideways glance towards the mirror, and she trailed off. "That's not possible," she whispered.

"Shows what you know," Nick said bluntly. "Yes, I'm a Grimm. And yes, you managed to miss that little fact, even with Trubel in your pocket."

Chavez sucked in a shocked breath as she realized Nick knew. He'd rattled her. Good. But too quickly she regained her composure. "I woged right in front of you before, and I saw nothing," she said, head quizzically tilted to the side. "How did you do that?"

"Wouldn't you like to know." Nick sat down opposite her and leaned forward. He'd learned just how to intimidate Wesen, and right now, that was exactly what he wanted. Frighten her, make her explain herself, make her tell him how she could justify any part of this to herself, how she could be so _calm_ about it. "You kidnapped my girlfriend. What do you think is going to happen now?"

Chavez sat back in her chair, tense but controlled. "What game are you playing?" she asked, sounding almost exasperated. "You fought her yourself."

Of course she knew that. She'd been there, waiting for Trubel to shoot Juliette, waiting to steal her body. 

"Strangely we managed to set our differences aside when it turned out we had a common enemy." That was simplifying matters to the point of outright falsity, but it was still the most truthful he could be. 

"So you're the one who let the Hexenbiest get away. Why? I'm not your enemy."

"Yes, you are," he snapped, but managed to keep control. He needed to shake Chavez out of her complacency, not let her get to him. "You're a federal agent. And you kidnapped her from her own home, faked her death, and held her in a _cage_."

"Are you sure you're a Grimm?" Chavez said caustically.

_I'm trying to be more than that._ "Are you sure you're FBI?"

For a long moment they looked at each other with mutual incomprehension. Then, "You have no idea what you're messing with," Chavez snapped. "And that is all I have to say to you."

Damn it, this was leading nowhere. 

Nick gave her an unpleasant smirk. If a Grimm wasn't enough to truly shake her, he had a Hexenbiest in his pocket. A Hexenbiest with a well-earned grudge. He made himself shrug, nonchalantly. "You want it like that? Fine by me." 

Chavez raised her chin, but true to her word, said nothing.

Nick turned to the mirror and gave a signal. A moment later, the door opened.

Chavez flinched back when she saw Juliette, wogeing in terror. She might have been rattled by Nick, but this was something else entirely. 

Nick stood, stepping to the side to cede the field to Juliette. She marched up to the table, planted her palms with an audible _smack_ and leaned forward, wogeing right back into Chavez's face, leaning forward in a snarl. Nick held himself still, expecting the surge of horror, of revulsion that always overcame him at the sight. It didn't come.

It didn't come. 

No time to dwell on that now.

"Look at me," Juliette hissed, and there was genuine fear in Chavez's birdlike face now. No surprise, really - she'd seen Juliette rage at her, impotently, from inside that cage. And there was no barrier between them now.

Nick smirked in satisfaction, then cast a quick look toward Renard, who'd come in behind her. Renard gave him a minuscule nod. 

"Look at me," Juliette repeated, her woged Hexenbiest face like stone. "Look me in the face. It doesn't bother you at all, does it? Everything you did - you don't even care."

Chavez's bird eyes were glued to her. Terrified but resolved. She seemed frozen in her woge. "Go ahead, kill me," she spat. "It won't change anything."

"No." Juliette straightened and crossed her arms in front of her chest, looking down at Chavez from under half-lowered eyelids as she shook her head and her face flowed back into her human mien. "That would be going easy on you."

The viciousness in Juliette's voice would have made Nick uncomfortable under any other circumstances. Right now he'd have liked to cheer her on. Something in him twitched at the feeling, and he pressed his lips together, unsettled.

Yes, they'd thoroughly turned the tables on Chavez. Instead of Juliette, it was Chavez who was helpless and trapped. And he'd felt _satisfied_ at the sight, pleased to have frightened her. Nick's stomach churned. 

"Now," Juliette continued, sharply, "stop playing games. What did you want with me? How did you even find me? And how do you live with yourself? Even I know -" There was a hitch in her voice, then, and she swallowed convulsively, breaking off.

Chavez didn't seem to notice; her eyes had shifted to the side at the last question, avoiding Juliette's face. How _did_ she live with herself? Had that got to her after all?

Perhaps she was hiding her qualms as well as Nick was. It was an uncomfortable thought.

And then Chavez - until that moment entirely focused on Juliette - was suddenly looking up at the captain, and her face stilled, only just now realizing who else had entered the interrogation room. Her woge finally fell away, and she glared. Renard smiled back at her, inscrutable, conceding nothing. Nick had to admire his poker face. Renard had seen her woge, but hadn't let her see him. 

"I should have known you were involved in this," Chavez said. Renard's presence seemed to have snapped her out of her terror, put her on firmer ground. _Damn._ But part of Nick was almost relieved. "Royals, every one of you as bad as the other." At Nick's reaction, she snorted. "Of course I know who he is. Royal, shot by an agent working for Royals - did you think we wouldn't uncover that?"

Right. She'd investigated Renard's shooting, once - internal investigations, since the shooter had, after all, been a FBI agent himself.

Nick glared back at her. She thought she knew about Renard, did she? Damn her; she knew nothing. If she only saw the Royal, she understood _nothing_. Even here at the precinct, she couldn't even see the police captain, no more than she could see the detective in Nick. Let alone the person. A Royal; a Grimm - one accident of birth, and in her eyes it defined them so thoroughly, nothing else mattered.

The same for Juliette, except that it was an accident of magic rather than birth.

Nick wished he knew how to shake that easy certainty. But before he could come up with a strategy, Renard spoke up. "None of that has anything to do with Juliette," he said coolly, and Nick took a deep breath, Renard's calm an anchor for his own control. 

_Renard_ hadn't gone and tried to intimidate Chavez. But then, he didn't have to - Nick and Juliette had done that for him, hadn't they? Damn it all.

"Of course it does. They made her. Or -" Chavez's eyes shifted to Juliette, then back to Renard. "Were you involved in that? You were feuding with your family before."

"Stop that!" Juliette was nearly screaming. "You keep going on about that. You can't possibly actually believe that! If you thought they did this, you'd be going after them to find out how, not me!" She lifted her hand, and telekinetic force slammed Chavez against the backrest of her chair. From the way she held her head, struggling for air, Juliette must have her by the throat. Nick held his breath. _No._ He had to stop this. But the words wouldn't come.

"Juliette," Renard said, quietly.

After a too-long moment, Juliette turned abruptly, and Chavez fell forward onto the table, coughing.

"She has a point, though," Renard said coolly. 

"We could get to her," Chavez said, her voice hoarse, and then had to clear her throat again. "Royals," she spat again. "Always meddling. But you've bitten off more than you can chew, this time."

Nick remembered this from spying on her. She'd been insistent, questioning Juliette about the Royals. Fixated. A fanatic? Somehow that didn't fit. 

"That's funny coming from you," Nick told her. "Considering you're barking up entirely the wrong tree." Not that there was any point trying to explain the truth to Chavez; she'd never believe it from them.

Beside him, Renard made an inarticulate noise. When Nick turned to him, he was leaning forward slightly, and his eyes had narrowed. "The guns we confiscated during your arrest ... Tell me, Agent Chavez, among them am I going to find the weapons used to shoot several Verrat agents in St. Johns yesterday?"

Chavez's mouth opened, then closed. "What do you expect?" she snapped. "We were looking for the Hexenbiest. Of course we found the Verrat who were also hunting for their masters' lost asset."

"Is that what you think happened," Renard breathed, and that was the moment when Nick suddenly caught on. Verrat agents were generally Hundjägers, after all. They'd found a knife at the scene.

Nick slammed his hands onto the table, just like Juliette had before, letting his disgust show on his face, restraint forgotten again. "Is that why you went after them? Or were you just out to harvest their noses?"

Behind him, Renard drew in a sharp breath, catching up, and Juliette made a revolted noise that sounded nothing at all like a dangerous Hexenbiest inured to all sorts of evils.

"If you're not working with them, what do you care?" Chavez asked contemptuously. "They weren't out to buy flowers for their sweethearts, you know."

"We know what they were out to do." _Unlike you._ He wasn't going to shed tears over those deaths - they were Verrat, after all, and would gladly have killed anyone who got in their way. But that knife ... that was something else.

"But here in Portland," Renard added smoothly, "we don't mutilate people, no matter who they are or what they do. Or murder them for their body parts."

Chavez looked at him, uncomprehending, then dismissed the statement as irrelevant. She leaned forward toward Nick, and her eyes glittered dangerously. "What do you want from me? What are you trying to make me say?"

_How about sorry?_ Nick thought bitterly. _How about anything that shows you know you did something wrong?_ But he wasn't going to get that; he could see that clearly.

Not that he didn't know how difficult it was, admitting that, even to yourself. Nick forced the thought aside.

He remembered what Renard had said, the day they'd broken Juliette out, about how unprepared Chavez's operation seemed for a conflict with the Royals. "You don't usually deal with Royals, do you?" he said, thinking hard. "Why are you getting in the middle of this?"

Chavez glared at him. "They never cared about us, and we ignored them. They weren't relevant here in the States. But that's changed, hasn't it? If they can make Hexenbiests ... You know what that means. Do you think there's anything we wouldn't do to prevent that?"

_Anything._ He could believe _that_ easily enough. Was that her excuse? It almost made sense. But still things weren't quite coming together; Nick was still missing something. It was almost on the tip of his tongue, somewhere underneath the anger he was still, just about, keeping a lid on.

But it was Renard who asked the real question. "Who fed you that information?" he demanded suddenly, and Nick drew in a sharp breath, pushing away from the table. Yes - this was it. "You didn't just stumble over something and misinterpret, did you? Someone pointed you our way."

Chavez bit her lips and averted her eyes. "You have no idea what you're dealing with."

Nick shared a look with Renard and Juliette. Renard was radiating irritated tension, though his eyes were speculating, thoughts flying much like Nick's were, beneath Nick's furious frustration. And beneath Juliette's brittle anger that had edged into hysteria earlier, there was a thoughtful look he knew very well. They knew they'd hit on something here, something crucial. For once, they were entirely on the same page. Nick wanted to hold on to the feeling, savor it for as long as it might last. But there was no time for that now.

What was Chavez talking about - _who_ was she talking about? 

"You keep saying that," Nick said, drawing out the words in a slow, deliberate drawl. " _We don't know._ Well, how about you tell us, then?"

Chavez pressed her lips together and said nothing.

"It's not about Juliette, is it? It's not even about the Royals. It's something else," Nick pressed. He looked at her, considering. Remembering. "Trubel says you try to do the right thing. If there's any truth in that, _tell_ us."

"The right thing!" Chavez stared at him in astonished anger, unaccountably stirred up by the remark. "How can you be so blind?" Her face was bitter fury now, and she woged at him briefly in accusation. "You want to know why we got involved? Because we can't afford to fight a three-way war!"

Nick felt rather than saw the captain stiffen at his side. "War, is it," Renard breathed.

"Isn't it always?" Chavez let out a harsh laugh. "That kind of power in Royal hands? They'll try to take control again. Do you know what that means? Civil war. And do you know who'll take advantage of it, to get Wesen to rally behind them?"

Nick blinked. _What?_

A snort. "Of course you don't know. My colleagues don't even -" Biting off the sentence, Chavez leaned forward, her eyes fixed on Nick. "But they'll come after you all the same."

Juliette snarled, and something whooshed past Nick's ear. Telekinetic force. Chavez was thrown back in her chair. "Are you threatening Nick?" Juliette hissed.

Nick's eyes went wide, and his heartbeat was suddenly loud in his ears. Slow as ever, yet it thumped against his eardrums with force. He felt stunned, frozen in the moment. Chavez, in Juliette's telekinetic hold, looked terrified and incandescently furious. He had to say something. 

"Don't," he forced past the lump in his throat.

Wincing, Juliette let her telekinetic grip fall. "Were you threatening him?" she demanded again.

Chavez rolled her shoulders, narrowed her eyes. "I'm _warning_ him," she snapped. "Not that he's hearing me. It's because of blind fools like him that the Black Claw ..." She flinched, suddenly realizing what she'd said, and she bit her lip, looking away.

Nick finally managed to get his feelings under control. He leaned forward. "What's the Black Claw?"

Chavez looked away. "I've already said too much."

And she wouldn't so much as look at any of them again, and would say no more. She simply sat there, legs crossed, face closed, looking as if her mind was far away, as if this room, this precinct and everyone in it were beneath her notice.

The same look she'd worn before. Not confident, Nick finally understood. Just entirely absorbed with the bigger picture, to the point where anything smaller didn't even register any more. 

Suddenly he was very tired.

"What's the point," he said softly, "if in the end there's no difference between you and what you're fighting? Kidnapping, faked deaths, cutting off people's noses - what makes you any better?"

Chavez ignored his stare, unmoved. She said nothing.

"You know what," Nick said eventually, "everything you said may be true. But you still kidnapped a woman, and you still held her captive, and you're still going to jail for it."

Hypocrisy, again. Yes - the anger was half at himself. It wasn't as if he'd done much better, lately. Worse, arguably.

_His fists in Kenneth's face. Nothing but blinding rage inside him. His blade in Kenneth's neck._

_"Kill her," he'd told Trubel. Kill Juliette._

_Vicious satisfaction at Chavez's terror._

But Renard had been right, damn the man - the only way out was forward. The only way he could stand up and do the right thing, now, was _this_. Step back. Stop threatening - stop intimidating. Let the case against Chavez and her agents proceed. Because it had to stop somewhere, and it was going to be _right here_.

It didn't matter how angry he was at Chavez, or what threat this _Black Claw_ might represent. If they gave up their own values to fight their enemies, they'd have lost before they'd even begun. 

Chavez finally turned and stared at him for a long moment, as if she couldn't believe what he'd said. "And that's what matters to you. In the face of everything else, that's more important to you."

Nick considered. "Yes," he said, "actually. Think about that, _Agent_ Chavez."

~*~

Back in the observation room, Juliette again stared at Chavez through the mirror with frightening intensity. Her hands were balled into fists. "That woman," she hissed.

"She's a cold one," Renard said. "But give it to her, she genuinely seems to believe what she's saying."

"And she genuinely seems to not give a fuck about due process," Nick snapped. "Some FBI agent she is. Dammit!" 

Some distant part of him knew he was being hypocritical again. It wasn't as if their interrogation of Chavez had anything to do with due process. But his fists were clenched just as tight as Juliette's. And here, in private, he could allow himself a brief outburst. He could.

Juliette's eyes were on him, the strangest expression on her face. 

"Who are you really angry at, Nick?" Renard asked, pointedly. "Get a grip. Just like you said - she's not getting out of this, not with the evidence we have. So let's focus on the one salient point in all that mess." He waved a hand in a vague gesture toward the mirror.

Nick wrestled himself under control. "Two points," he corrected. "One, someone fed her information. Two, the Black Claw, whatever the hell that is."

Renard nodded, conceding. "Something Chavez considers extremely dangerous. I don't think that woman would use the term _war_ lightly. And whoever fed her information ..."

"Misinformation," Juliette inserted sharply.

"Yes," Renard said seriously, "that's another question, isn't it? Chavez's allies don't seem to have been entirely upfront with her." He shook his head, mouth twisting downward. "There seem to be multiple unknown factions involved, and I don't like that at all."

"Yeah. You and me both." Nick turned to look at Juliette and made himself set aside his anger, his frustration, made himself look at her with concern. She'd held it together, even if it hadn't been easy. That mattered, too. Bigger picture be damned. "Are you going to be okay?"

Juliette almost seemed to flinch back. Then she huffed a laugh. "I don't understand you," she said. "I don't understand you at all." And then she pressed her lips together and averted her face.

"Well, that's mutual," Nick muttered, but of all her inexplicable reactions, this was surely the most harmless. Then, aside to Renard, "What now?"

"We'll have to do some research. Discreetly," Renard emphasized.

Nick nodded. "I'll call Monroe."

Renard nodded. "I'm not sure which of my contacts will be safe to involve," he admitted after a moment, clearly displeased. "I'll think about it. And we'll have to talk to Chavez's agents."

Juliette stepped forward. "She said they don't know. You believe that?" She sounded unsure, under the anger.

"We'll see." Renard shrugged. "And either way, I don't doubt Chavez's boss will be in touch before long." He tilted his head toward Nick. "I'll bring you in as soon as I hear from Assistant Director Robeson."

"So, basically, wait and see," Nick summed up.

Renard nodded agreement, and after a moment, reluctantly, so did Juliette.

~*~

Nick heard the door to Renard's office open and looked over his shoulder. Juliette was just coming out, apparently saying good-bye. Renard turned back inside. There had been no word from Robeson yet.

They'd done a quick sweep through the other agents they'd arrested, dividing them between the three of them. In the end, they'd all concurred that it seemed none of them saw their mission in Portland as anything more than a slightly unpleasant but necessary part of their usual job. The only one Nick had any doubts about was the apothecary, a closed-up, brusque woman who played distant almost as well as Chavez, but had otherwise given them nothing new.

In mutual agreement, they hadn't mentioned the name _Black Claw_. 

From Renard's door, Juliette's eyes caught on Nick, and she hesitated. Then, resolutely, she walked over to his desk.

"Hey," Nick said lamely.

"Hey," she said back, just as hesitant for once. And quietly enough that it wasn't, couldn't be mere performance.

"Juliette. About to head home?"

She nodded, but came a little closer. Nick wondered if he should stand up, but then she leaned against his desk, and it all looked very casual and normal. 

Nick swallowed, just restraining himself from throwing a pleading look at her. _Please let this not turn into a confrontation. Not again._ He did want to talk to her, to see if they couldn't at least be civil to each other, outside of a shared crisis. But he didn't know how to even begin. They'd stood together well enough, against Chavez, but last night had gone well enough, too, until ...

"You were angry," Juliette finally said, under her breath.

He blinked. "Yeah?" What was she going for? Of course he'd been angry. He'd barely stopped being angry for weeks, except with his son. And with Renard, sometimes, for some reason.

"I think you were just as angry as I was."

He'd thought the same. "Probably," he agreed.

"And then you turned it off." Her voice turned into a hiss. "And it was just gone. Did you always do that, with me? Did you always hide yourself like that?"

Nick remembered, belatedly, her accusation from several days ago: _You never get angry. I've never seen it._

"I didn't mean to," he said, frustrated and helpless again. "I used to ..." He looked aside. "You used to _make_ me less angry."

She gasped.

"Sorry," he muttered.

She remained quiet for a long moment, her eyes heavy on him. "You didn't flinch, even when I woged," she finally said, under her breath. "You hugged me, yesterday. And today ... Why always when there's an audience? Why never when it's just us?" Her voice hitched on the last word.

"No!" Pained protest. "It wasn't like that." Was that what she thought? Was that why she'd been so hostile? God, she had it all wrong.

"Wasn't it?" 

Nick shook his head. Tried to find the right words. "Remember back at the start? When I said I'd have to learn to accept you?" When she opened her mouth, he interrupted, "Yeah, I know how that turned out. But - well. Seems I'm finally figuring out how."

She gaped at him, eyes wide. "You're saying ..."

"That wasn't just acting," Nick said quietly, willing her to believe him. "I swear. That part was all real."

After a long moment she yanked her eyes away, staring into the distance. She seemed to be shivering slightly. Then her head turned back. Juliette didn't quite meet his eyes; she stared somewhere over his shoulder, as if looking him in the eye would be too much. 

"I didn't mean it," she said eventually, diffidently. "What I said last night - you have to believe me, I didn't mean that."

The statement hit him as if the very air had turned into a wall. He couldn't think. "Did you tell that to the captain?" he deflected.

Juliette looked toward Renard's office, and a grimace flickered over her face, there and gone again, lost in the hard lines of her face. They always seemed hard now - or was that his imagination?

"He knows," she whispered, almost as if to herself. "He has to know."

Nick would bet his life that that still hadn't made it easy to hear what she'd said about Renard's daughter. And Nick's son.

_I hope she steals your babies,_ she'd said. 

Yeah, Renard had known - had even defended her the night before. Nick wondered if she knew that, if she understood what that must have cost the man, considering Juliette _had_ betrayed him before, had handed his daughter over to his enemies.

"Bet he'd still like to hear it," Nick said repressively. Easier than trying to untangle his own feelings.

Juliette threw up her hands, exasperated. "Unlike you, you mean? Look. You don't have to forgive me, but the way you're acting, I can't help think you'd have been happier if I'd said nothing."

"No." He had to swallow. That wasn't what he'd meant at all. Trust her to take it that way, though. "No, I'm -" Nick broke off, and lowered his face into his hands. He didn't even know where to begin. "I'm glad you said it," he whispered. _Even if I have no idea what it means. To you, or to me._

"I didn't mean it," she repeated, hoarsely, almost inaudibly. "Sean didn't say anything. You're right; I should ..."

When he looked up, her eyes were dark and watery. He wanted to trust her. He wanted to.

Impulsively he reached out to squeeze her hand. "Yeah," he said, inanely. "Yeah." He had no idea how Renard did it. If it had been Nick and Juliette, alone together, they wouldn't have lasted a day without coming to blows.

That was a familiar bitterness, by now. But it hadn't yet started to hurt less.

Juliette stilled. Her eyes seemed glued to his hand on hers. Nick flushed and almost withdrew, but that would be a mistake. Possibly a fatal one.

She drew in a shuddering breath, and her voice trembled when she spoke. "This isn't a performance either, is it?"

"What?" Oh. _Oh._ He squeezed her hand again. "No," he answered, just as quietly, and hoped she could read the sincerity in his voice, hoped she still knew him well enough for that. Certainly she'd read every one of his flinches, every time he'd closed up, with no effort at all. "Sorry I figured it out too late."

Juliette was still staring down at their hands. She turned hers under his and returned his grip. White-knuckled, with a strength she hadn't possessed once upon a time. Deliberate reminder, or simply expression of her emotional state? Perhaps both. He squeezed back, not gently this time but just as firmly, strength against strength. They'd never done that before, not like this, not outside of a fight. Not one single friendly touch. 

His fault, that. There'd been a moment when he still could have, before she'd changed too much, before she'd lost herself in the force of her changes, before ... 

_A gun, pointed at Monroe. Threats to Adalind and the unborn baby. His mother's severed head. Telekinetic force throwing Nick through the air._

_Juliette, standing above him, raising her hand for the killing strike._

Before it was too late. He'd missed that moment, and everything else had flown from there. A week ago today, he'd buried her, but here she was.

He'd missed the right moment, but here they were anyway. 

Abruptly Juliette let go and pushed away from the desk, taking a half-step to the side. She seemed unsteady on her feet, and her breath was a harsh shiver from her mouth. "I have to think about this," she managed eventually. "This is ..." A desperate, helpless shake of the head as she admitted, "I don't know what this is."

"Yeah," Nick could only agree. "Me neither." He swallowed. "We should probably talk at some point." Not that he knew what he would say. Not that he wanted to. Not with the way it would inevitably turn out, every vulnerable spot, every scabbed-over wound, every old scar raked open by someone who knew exactly how to make it hurt. _And that goes for both of us._

But if not now, when? 

"Maybe we should," Juliette said quietly, and he could see how hard it was for her. But he didn't reach out and touch her again. Nick still had no idea how to disentangle the knot of feelings she evoked in him. He only knew he was helpless in their wake.

They did have to talk, and they both knew it. Neither of them relished the necessity, but putting it off any longer wouldn't help.

"Yes," Nick said. And again, "Yes." He closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath. _Stop hiding, Nick._ "Come to the house tomorrow? Afternoon?" 

Adalind would be there, and Kelly, and Trubel. But if she couldn't take that, there was no chance for peace between them. Besides, they could just talk outside, or go for a walk. 

Juliette shivered. But she nodded again, lips pressed together. Because she, too, knew. Because whatever happened next, it had to start at the house, in the face of all their history. Anything less wouldn't do at all.

"Tomorrow," she said. "I'll be there."

  
  


* * *

  
  


Renard stood at his office window and looked out into the bullpen through half-closed blinds. Nick and Juliette were talking. Good, he told himself firmly. He'd wanted this, had hoped for this. He had no business wishing either of them - both of them - were talking to him instead.

Certainly neither of them would appreciate such a sentiment from him. Possessiveness in powerful men tended to be attractive only to a very specific subset of people, who in turn were generally not attractive to him. And neither Nick nor Juliette was among them. There were things he couldn't afford to want; he'd always known that. His mother, who'd learned the same lesson, had taught him well. He missed her.

What would she think of the complicated relationships he'd gotten himself entangled in here, since she'd left? What advice would she give him? Would she think him a fool, going as far as he had for these people?

Renard set aside the futile thoughts. He had other things to contemplate, had too many balls in the air as it was. The logistics of childcare were daunting enough, even apart from the immediate threat to his daughter. Then there was the declaration he'd made to the Verrat, and the repercussions that would come from it; his family, inevitably; the Resistance - and now, apparently, at least two new players in the game. He couldn't afford further complications, further risks. 

How to respond to Chavez's news? The _Black Claw_ \- that sounded ominous enough. And their opponents, using Chavez, clearly weren't exactly squeamish in their methods either. He would have to tread very delicately until he had some firmer grasp of what he was up against, would have to consider very carefully who to trust.

It would be a gamble anyway. But there was no helping that.

The ringing of a phone turned him back to his desk. It was his secure cell phone, and he took it out of its drawer quickly. An unknown caller.

"Yes?" he said briskly, sitting down behind his desk.

"I heard you made a phone call." It was Meisner's voice, businesslike as always. And well-informed, even here, away from his usual networks.

"I do that several times a day," Renard stalled. Let Meisner tell him what he knew, first.

"You know what I speak of," Meisner returned. "You've given the Verrat quite a conundrum. Not to mention your family - and the Resistance. It will be interesting to see how things fall out."

Yes. It would. There were good reasons he'd never taken this step before, after all. But for his daughter, it had been necessary.

"That didn't take long getting to you," he said, letting a little amusement show. Letting Meisner have that acknowledgment of his competence, which was, after all, well deserved.

"It got everywhere," Meisner said curtly. "As you knew it would."

Renard said nothing. Meisner wasn't stating the obvious for the fun of it; let him have his say.

"So you take your place as a Royal after all." Distaste colored Meisner's voice. "You hated your family enough that I was confident you never would - but now ..."

Ah. That was what he was going for. "You said it yourself," Renard retorted, "the game board has changed. And I'll take whatever steps necessary to keep my daughter safe. Even this." He paused, for effect. "I doubt you find it any more distasteful than I do."

"Do you." Flatly.

"If your question is whether this affects our alliance - no," Renard said calmly. "If it's broken, it won't be by me." Promise and threat all in one.

Meisner became impatient. "You must be aware how this step of yours will affect the Resistance's view on you. Many were barely willing to ally with you even as it was."

Many were barely competent enough to stay alive.

"Make your choice, then." Renard knew perfectly well that Meisner had other choices to make as well - not the least about his daughter. Whether to leave her in Renard's hands, or attempt to regain control over her. Whether to make Renard an enemy in the attempt. This was the least of what stood between them, right now; it changed far less than Meisner was pretending. Though it would be different for other Resistance leaders; that much was true. "You know who I did this for, even if some of your associates will be doubtful."

Meisner was silent for a moment. "Yes," he said eventually, conceding. "How _is_ your daughter?"

"She's doing well." Renard hesitated, then went for broke. "Meisner - I'm only saying this once. I respect you a great deal, and our alliance has been to our mutual benefit for some time now. Don't do something I'm going to be forced to make you regret."

"Threats from a Royal. How original." There was an audible scowl in Meisner's voice.

"A warning," Renard corrected. "From a father."

"This won't be the end of it, you know," Meisner said, smoothly changing the subject. "There will still be people after her, from every side of the board."

"Naturally."

In the pause that followed, Renard contemplated mentioning the name _Black Claw_ to Meisner. If anyone might have heard it, it would be him. In the end, Renard decided against. Too risky. Not until Meisner had made his choice.

Then, "I will let you know," Meisner said, and hung up.

Renard closed his eyes for a moment, then put his phone away. Meisner was a reliable man. Renard knew he wouldn't break their agreements, would stay true to his word. But they'd never had any agreement over Diana, so that was outside the purview of their original alliance. The ball was in Meisner's court, and he had to decide where he stood.

His promise to let Renard know was meaningless if he meant to let him know by means of an attack. But if his choice was different - if he sent word in actual _words_ , or even by simply leaving Portland, which would be a statement all on its own - Renard would be able to rely on it implicitly. 

He hoped Meisner would not choose to make them enemies. He would not enjoy destroying the man, but if he had to, he'd do his utmost toward that end.

Renard sighed and thought over the course of the conversation again. Meisner was concerned about the international repercussions - his own sphere. Renard was confident enough about that part. He'd never have taken the risk if he truly thought he'd end up in a state of open war with his family. It was the local, Portland side where the move might blow up in his face. 

Here in the US, where Wesen were accustomed to looking at ruling Royals as a European tradition they were well rid of - here in Portland, where his own Royal status had granted him access he might not have otherwise have had, but little direct power otherwise - here, his declaration of sovereignty would be met with misgivings at best, outright hostility at worst. Every Wesen, every Kehrseite-schlich-kennen would ask themselves what he meant by it, what authority it was he claimed. All the assurances he could make that he meant for no changes, that it was a move strictly aimed at his family and their sphere of influence, would mean nothing to them, would be impossible to trust. 

Things would settle down eventually, when he made no further moves, but that would take time, and he would be under increased scrutiny in the meantime. Everything he did would be speculated on, to a degree he'd never been subjected to before.

But for Diana's sake he'd had to take that risk.

Renard sighed and thought nostalgically of the time when his identity as a Royal had been virtually unknown in Portland, outside of his immediate associates. But those times were past. If nothing else, his family's repeated intrusions had made certain of that. Word had gotten around. 

He shook his head, attempting to dislodge the useless speculation. No point worrying about this now.

Renard stood and went to look out into the bullpen again. Juliette had left; Nick was alone at his desk. A corner of Renard's lip turned down, and he allowed himself one more moment of wistfulness. For a few days he'd let himself be entirely absorbed by Nick and Juliette and the quagmire of their personal problems. It hadn't been easy - had been exquisitely painful at times - and he'd more than once wondered if he was doing any good at all, but still, once he'd been sure Juliette was in control of herself enough not to make this a matter of life and death, in a bizarre way it had been almost restful, to handle such small, private issues. Something in his chest felt very tight. A personal tempest, with the political a far-off secondary concern. 

No more. The larger world had caught up with him after all. And perhaps that was for the best. 

Juliette was living with him, was planning to stay. Nick had been willing to lean on him, had offered to look after Diana, had given him something infinitely precious. Today Nick and Juliette and he had stood side by side, united against a common enemy. Both of them were set to be a part of his life, even if the limits of their current relationship were never to be exceeded. And that had to be enough. He had no right at all wishing for something else.

At least Diana would grow up with more than one person in her life she could trust. She would not be isolated, he swore to himself. She would never lack for someone to turn to. 

There were things he had to put out of his mind, that was all.

~*~

The email arrived late in the afternoon. Renard's eyebrows went up. He'd expected a phone call from Assistant Director Robeson, once Robeson had caught up on events; this was something else entirely. Robeson was coming here in person.

Having associates at the airport had proved invaluable to him once again.

And no wonder it had taken so long to hear; he'd been slightly concerned about that. Renard rubbed his hand over his forehead, considering. Just how much did Robeson know? He was reasonably sure Chavez's colleagues knew less than she; was Robeson better informed?

Certainly Robeson wasn't coming here because he had nothing better to do.

Renard smiled to himself, half satisfaction, half speculation. He went to the door and called Nick to his office. Time to get ready for another confrontation.

~*~

Renard met Robeson at the door to his office. The FBI director was a middle-aged man with a receding hairline, about Nick's height, and not exactly stout but not thin either.

"Assistant Director Robeson," Renard greeted, his smile showing teeth, "I've been expecting to hear from you." 

"Captain Renard." The man's eyes were burning with frustrated anger. He pulled on an earlobe in a gesture that seemed half nervous, half angry. "What is going on here?"

"What do you think?" Renard eyed the man calmly, evaluating his reactions. "Your agents were caught in a very compromising situation, Director. Engaged in several crimes, not the least of which is the kidnapping and unlawful imprisonment of a woman. I'm afraid you have a major scandal on your hands."

That much was public knowledge now at the precinct, safe and, indeed, sensible to say in public. Robeson gave no visible reaction to the repetition of what he already knew, merely glared.

Renard indicated for Robeson to precede him into the office, and Robeson, seething, obeyed. Only after the door had closed behind them, Renard remarked, "It's very interesting you thought it necessary to come here personally."

Robeson ignored the statement. His eyes, hectic and searching, scanned the office and immediately fell on Nick, who was leaning against the wall opposite the door, arms crossed over his chest, watching. "Who the hell are you?" 

He woged, seemingly on pure reflex; his face turned pointed, whiskered, furred. He was a Reinigen, of course. Perhaps that was what had made him good at clean-up. He'd need it now, Renard thought grimly. Faced with the abyss of Nick's eyes, Robeson flinched back, gulping air, losing his woge immediately.

"Does that clarify things?" Renard asked smoothly. Nick merely smiled darkly, playing the part of the dangerous Grimm with evident gusto. It was not a role Nick was always comfortable playing, but they'd acted out similar charades before, and in this case, Nick had had no reservations.

"Grimm," Robeson sneered, catching his instinctive reaction, forcing it down. He turned back to Renard, reconsidering whatever he'd planned to say. He'd known he'd be facing a Royal, of course - Chavez's statement had made that evident - but if his attitudes were anything like his agent's, he held no respect for that title. A Grimm was a different matter.

The thought did rankle a little, even as Renard amused himself imagining his family's reaction to such a slight. 

"You know what my department does, don't you?" Robeson eventually said. "My agents were on a mission."

Renard hummed disagreement. "Your job is to prevent Wesen cases from coming to the FBI's official attention. Covering up Wesen involvement in inconvenient places. What your agents did was something else."

Robeson scowled. "The Council has always been satisfied with my work. I get results."

"By any means necessary," Renard interpreted. He smiled thinly. "The Council won't be so happy you're going against Council law to do it, though."

"What?"

"The use of illegal potions ingredients, for one. And more than use - your agents attacked Hundjägers to harvest their noses, Director. You think the Council would be pleased by that?"

"They _what?_ " Robeson's eyes went wide in what Renard thought was genuine startlement; then his eyebrows drew together. "Is that why I suddenly have the Council breathing down my neck?"

"Justified, don't you think?" Renard said blandly.

"Damn it," Robeson breathed, "what the hell happened here?" He seemed not just taken aback, but honestly displeased by the news. Whether that was merely because he'd been caught unprepared, or whether he actually disapproved, remained to be seen.

"That's a very good question," Renard told him. "Your agents' mission was a sham. Why did you send them to Portland in the first place?

Robeson straightened his suit jacket, considering for a moment. "We had information that the Royals had discovered how to turn Kehrseite into Hexenbiests." 

Nick growled, and Robeson's head twitched around, facing him. "Who told you that?" Nick demanded. "Who fed you that information? Which is completely false, by the way."

Robeson's eyebrows went up. "Is it?" He looked back at Renard, challenging. "You're Royal. How do I know you're not involved?"

Renard sighed. After Chavez's insistence on the point, he had expected the objection. "For one, it would be a pointless cover-up," he said. "If such a process existed, it's not something you could keep secret for long. Not if you meant to use it."

"Point." Robeson tugged his earlobe again. "If it weren't ..." He grimaced. "It was one of Chavez's sources. Confidential, she said."

Interesting. Either the man had misgivings about Chavez, or he had decided to make her his scapegoat. Impossible to tell which, for now.

Either way, this was clearly a dead end. Robeson either knew nothing about whoever had fed Chavez that story, or else he would pretend so.

"I'm starting to think I'm missing some very significant pieces of this puzzle." Robeson took a deep breath. "Captain Renard, perhaps we got off on the wrong foot. I need to know what actually happened here. Can we start over, please?"

Renard slowly looked the man up and down, taking his measure, considering his approach. The Reinigen twitched once, but otherwise withstood the scrutiny well enough. Of course a man in his position would not be easy to intimidate.

Then he made a small hand gesture at his side to signal Nick.

"What is the Black Claw?" the Grimm asked suddenly.

Robeson flinched. For a long moment he stared at Nick; then he looked around himself with restless turns of the head. "Where did you hear that name?" he whispered, harshly. His eyes never stood still.

Renard's eyes went up. Whatever reaction he had anticipated, this was not it. Nick's surprise was evident in his eyes as well, though perhaps not to an outsider. The very real anger made for an excellent mask. 

"Agent Chavez," Nick said simply. Leaving open just how much the woman had told them.

The FBI director started wringing his hands. "Chavez," he muttered, "what have you done?"

Before Renard could make the decision, Nick already stepped forward, gripping Robeson by the shoulders, forcing him to look at him. Even though Robeson wasn't woged and therefore couldn't see Nick's Grimm eyes, he seemed to be trying to avoid meeting his gaze. "Talk, damn it," Nick demanded. "What _has_ she done? Apart from the obvious."

After a moment, Robeson seemed to catch himself, and he shook off Nick's grip. "If she told you that much, she's already said too much," he said, looking between Nick and Renard, clearly fighting for composure. "If they find out you know ..." He shuddered, then took a deep breath. "Look, I don't know much. I've been trying to figure this out for months now. I don't know how deep Agent Chavez is involved in this - she never told me. But that's why I came here in person, because it's Chavez, and she _is_ involved somehow. All I know is - well."

"All you know?" Renard prompted mildly.

"Not much," Robeson repeated. "An organization, a dangerous one. Every time you think you find a trail, they vanish. People, places, things - erased. I don't know what they want, except to do away with the Code of Swabia."

Renard stilled. The ancient code that kept the Wesen world hidden and therefore safe from Kehrseite eyes had been in effect since 1521. It was the foundation of modern Wesen society. Breaking it carried the death penalty under Council law, for good reason. Renard shuddered to think what chaos would ensue, should Wesen ever be exposed to the public. He could imagine the witch hunts only too well.

Suddenly he could understand Chavez's determination. It might not excuse her actions, but it was certainly excellent motivation.

"I know they've amassed considerable funds," Robeson continued. "They have killed people who have stumbled on one of their operations. And Agent Chavez has contacts with a group opposed to them. I don't know any more than that."

"Come on," Nick pressed. "That can't be all."

"That _is_ all," Robeson said, and by his sheepish face that might actually be true. "I never dared confront Chavez. I don't know what her role in all of this is. I've been trying to find proof on my own, and so far all I have are loose ends leading nowhere. The name has turned up a few times, and a symbol." He reached across Renard's desk for a sheet of paper and a pen, and quickly drew four lines. Claw marks. He held it up. "It's never seen anywhere for long," he added. "Someone erases that, too."

"I see." Renard took the paper from Robeson and considered it. If he had seen the symbol in any relevant context before, he hadn't noticed. He put it down. "Thank you for your explanation. That certainly puts some things into perspective." He smiled thinly. "But your agents are still under arrest. What do you intend to do about that?"

Nick, glaring, crossed his arms in front of his chest again and leaned against the wall in a different place, keeping himself in Robeson's view.

Robeson tugged on his earlobe, convulsively. "I want my agents out of here."

"I'm afraid that is out of the question." Renard walked calmly around his desk and sat down. "Your agents were caught, Director. We have the victim's testimony and a great deal of physical evidence on file. There's no making this disappear."

"What," Robeson forced out, "do you want?" 

"This isn't a negotiation." Renard crossed his legs, pulled open a drawer and put the paper with the Black Claw symbol away. "Your agents are not innocent, Director. And Wesen law can't protect them, no matter what they were trying to do. Certainly not given the way they went about it."

Hectic red spots began to appear on Robeson's cheeks. "What do you think you're doing?"

"My job," Renard said. "That's all I can do. And I suggest you do yours. I don't care what kind of cover story you come up with, for why FBI agents were engaged in kidnapping and false imprisonment. Covering up Wesen cases is your specialty, isn't it? Well, get to work."

"You sent them here," Nick added, coldly. "And your agents may have violated Council law without your knowledge; I'll give you that. But whether or not you authorized the details, your agents didn't balk at this. What does that say about you?"

"You're a Grimm!" Robeson snapped. "You'd think you'd be in favor of taking out dangerous Wesen."

"You'd think," Nick snarled, his best _dangerous Grimm_ look. Renard watched with approval. Nick was exactly on script, his anger - unlike earlier - an instrument under his control. 

"Regardless," Renard said, "your agents are under arrest, and the case will proceed. There's nothing I could do about that now, even if I wanted."

Robeson woged again, briefly, his nose lifting in the air, then twitching from side to side. "Just ... oh, _damn_ Chavez! Why did she have to get me involved in this?"

Renard merely raised his eyebrow at him, saying nothing.

Eventually Robeson shrugged. "Fine. I'll have to call in the Council."

"They're not very happy with you right now."

Robeson huffed. "Remember, the Code of Swabia. You think the Council wouldn't authorize anything - _anything_ that could help stop them?"

Renard nodded, conceding. "Good luck," he said, and he stood up, holding out his hand. His other hand made a palm-down, stay-out-of-this gesture, because he knew Nick. Nick wouldn't take this suggestion well at all. But right now, Renard was more focused on getting Robeson out of his office before they made an enemy here.

After a moment, Robeson shook his hand. "I expect we'll hear from each other," he said, grudgingly.

Thankfully, Nick stayed silent, but Renard could feel the furious heat of his gaze. 

"I expect so," Renard said, nodding politely. 

And then Robeson was out of his office after all, and Renard sighed, letting himself fall back into his chair.

Quick strides took Nick to the open door. He banged it shut with more force than strictly necessary. Then he whirled around, glaring at Renard. " _Good luck?_ What the hell was that?"

Renard looked up at him. "What did you want me to say?" It wasn't as if he couldn't understand the furious tension, the frustration with nowhere to go. But he really had no energy left to manage Nick now. "Did you _want_ to make a permanent enemy?"

Nick bristled at the tone, baring his teeth. His hands were clenched at his sides, and his stance radiated imminent violence. So much for control. "That man said he'd get Chavez off, and you wished him good luck."

"Do you really want to do this now?" Renard hissed, standing up. "Do you know how many factions we're already juggling? How many people are already waiting for any mistake we make, any opening we give them? I have no _time_ left for a new one. And I'm definitely not going to expose my daughter to even more danger, just because you didn't get to vent your righteous indignation."

Nick's mouth opened, then closed, settling into a mulish expression. "I only wanted ..." 

"I know what you wanted," Renard snapped. "You wanted to handle this as a Grimm. With an axe, preferably." Nick flinched back as if he'd struck him, and Renard took a deep breath, ran a hand over his face, pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry," he said with a grimace, and deliberately stepped out from behind his desk, removing the physical barrier between them. "I shouldn't have lashed out at you. Believe me, I don't want them to weasel out of this any more than you do."

After a tense moment, the Grimm's hackles came down, and the violence drained from Nick's stance. The anger bled from his eyes, leaving behind a strange, almost chagrined expression. Renard couldn't decipher it. 

"You ..." Nick trailed off, and he lifted a hand, then let it fall to his side again. Renard watched him with bemusement, leaning back against his desk. Nick didn't continue his original sentence. "I was out of line," he said instead. "I'm sorry, Captain." He looked to the side, then back at Renard, as if nerving himself up to something; then he suddenly stepped forward, and his hand closed over Renard's where it sat at the edge of his desk. Renard nearly pulled away, astonished. "Are you okay?"

Renard felt his lips curve down. "I didn't think I was that over the top."

Nick huffed a laugh and leaned toward him, and his closeness was strangely soothing to Renard's strained nerves. "I just -" He interrupted himself, then started again. "It's been a bad year for all of us. And I just realized how much of this stuff you juggle on a regular basis. And you never seem to lose control. Doesn't it ever get too much?"

"I don't exactly have a choice about it." It came out half wry, half bleak, and Nick squeezed his hand in response. 

"I'm sorry," Nick said again. "I know better. I don't want -" Again, he broke off. After a moment he added, mouth twisting, "You were right. There are days when problem-solving by chopping people's heads off would be a relief."

Renard managed a chuckle. "I can recommend a good armorer if you wear out your axe."

Nick snorted in reply and finally let go of Renard's hand. It was a little disappointing, actually. Renard didn't allow himself to dwell on the feeling.

"So," Nick said eventually, "do we believe Robeson?"

"Which part?" Renard asked, lips quirking. "About the Black Claw? I think he told us the truth, as far as it went. About his own involvement with Chavez and whoever her contacts are? I wouldn't lay odds."

"Yeah." Nick sighed. "I suppose we'll have to wait and see." He scowled. "And keep an eye on him."

Renard smiled. "That," he said, "goes without saying."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, I've used a concept from season 5 in this chapter. Apart from that one element, though, this story still doesn't take anything later than the season 4 finale into account, and it will proceed the way I originally planned.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are loved and adored!
> 
> & find me at [LJ](http://trobadora.livejournal.com/) \- I'm always happy to talk about Grimm.


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